Starting Over
by maelstrom7461
Summary: She didn't choose to be stuck with Santana, and it wasn't like the latter was very fond of her either. But close proximity forces them to come to terms with their misunderstandings and decisions, and when it all catches up to them, something's going to give. Post graduation (Quinntana) Explicit content and mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

Summary:

She didn't choose to be stuck with Santana, and it wasn't like the latter was very fond of her either. She had hoped that post graduation meant she could leave it all behind, cut close proximity forces them to come to terms, and when it all catches up to them, something's going to give.

Rated for explicit content and mature themes.

I don't own any of the characters (:

* * *

><p><span>The Guest<span>

"With freedom, books, flowers and the moon, who could not be happy?" Oscar Wilde had once asked. Quinn knew this because, well, she read it somewhere.

And she wondered, why was it that, despite the fact that she was out with her book, at night with the moon high above, surrounded by somewhat pretty shrubs, that she was quite possibly at the lowest point of her life.

Because poetic and whimsical notions were overrated;, that's why. She couldn't care to admire the different hues of flowers; they all shrivelled up and died anyways, what with winter sucking the life and joy out of everything possible. Sunsets and stars were monotonous and same day after day, and there was only this much books could offer her. She had seen enough of those when she spent a month bound to a wheelchair, in any case.

It was halfway through summer break, meaning Quinn had about a month to waste before heading back to college. It meant that it was nine months since she had last reunited with her friends from high school. Not that she wanted to, but there were some exceptions.

It also meant that it was almost a year since she had first stepped foot into Yale.

It was going to be a whole new life, she had foolishly decided, as she piled her clothes into neat boxes in her tiny, pink bedroom, and she was leaving the old Quinn and all her mistakes behind. Frankly, she was excited at the prospect of starting the new phase of her life. One without restraints or opinionated comments or judgements. It was the new Quinn Fabray.

Into the 'throw away' box went all her pageant and prom queen tiaras; their sheen had dulled and their glow had dimmed - a seemingly uncanny resemblance to her life, she thought, as she tossed them into the cardboard box.

She had felt a twinge of remorse discarding her once-beloved trophies like that, but she was determined to start anew. Even her memories - she would fade them out somehow. Crumbled bits of paper with (embarrassingly) horrible and ugly drawings of Rachel Berry went into the box next; a result of Quinn's boredom in her high school years. She had hated Rachel then, more so for her talent rather than her stealing her previous boyfriend away. She never said it aloud though, because she knew people would laugh. But in all honesty, she had come to terms with the fact that she was the most average girl ever possible.

She didn't possess a fantastic vocal box that would let her belt out amazing notes; Kurt and Rachel and Mercedes did. She didn't have any hitherto dancing skills to enthrall the crowd; Mike and Brittany did. She was an above average student when it came to academic achievements, she wouldn't deny that, but there were better.

After years of calling others that dreadful name, she realised that she was the Lima Loser.

But she had got into Yale on a scholarship for the arts, specifically, acting. She was good at acting, and act she did all her life. She played her part well, the role of an over-achieving, over-compensating head cheerleader, admired by many and seemingly flawless, when in harsh reality, it had just been a girl hiding from the shadows of fabricated lies were more pleasing to those around her, and they listened on with painted smiles and looks of awe. She didn't stop. Why would she? No one noticed, as she had come to realise.

Maybe not no one. Maybe one person had noticed, she had thought, picking up an old faded picture of her and Santana hugging on the bleachers.

The picture was the final treasure in the room, waiting for its fate. In whatever room she had called her own since childhood, there is had also lived for the past 4 years, not quite familiar, not quite smiling, but in its prim colonial hues delicate as some pressed flower. It was encompassed in a battered, pretty little plastic frame. She remembered chucking the little frame somewhere in a cupboard in her apartment.

Quinn shivered slightly, and she pulled the sleeves of her cardigan to cover her knuckles.

Her resolve to leave the past behind had been as soft as the material of her cardigan, to say the least, and she found herself talking to Rachel often on Skype, meeting up whenever possible. While her roommate were more than decent company, she wasn't any of her friends back at McKinley, and there was just no filling in for some people.

Yale was lonely at times, very lonely.

Quinn glanced at her phone at the slight vibration; a new message from Rachel.

**"The train was late, sorry. Will be there in an hour (:"**

She frowned slightly, but sent back a smiley face nonetheless. It wasn't like her friend to be late, but if the train was at fault, she couldn't be held at blame for it. It was also very un-Rachel Berry like to turn up abruptly at her doorstep, despite the day's notice via Skype.

_"New York is amazing, Quinn, isn't it? Its so full of life and theatricality! You'll love it, i'm sure. Why don't you stay with us for the fortnight before your semester begins? You'll be entitled to the one-of-a-kind Rachel Berry's tour of New York!" Rachel gushed, excited at the prospect._

_"Summer break still lasts for a month, so i'll try to come around, but don't trouble yourself."_

_"What trouble? C'mon, Quinn, it'll be fun! And I went to visit the museum the other day and guess what?!" Rachel dramatically stage-whispered, bringing her face several inches closer to the webcam._

_Quinn giggled, raising her eyebrows in reply at the prompt. "I stood in the same position Barbra Streisand had stood. The very place where a sheer pioneer had graced, and I was there to feel it!" Rachel gushed, looking so longingly into the distance that Quinn almost thought her screen had frozen for a second._

_"It sounds amazing," Quinn said, knowing how excited Rachel could get over all her...idols. "I can't wait to see them myself."_

_"Quinn, if you're going to be sarcastic, you need to try harder," Rachel huffed, before suddenly brightening up all over again. "Also, guess what? I have auditions!"_

_"Auditions?" Quinn asked curiously; Rachel hadn't mentioned any new roles she had landed. She watched as the smile on the brunette's face widened with glee before she squealed._

_"I got through the first round of auditions for Fanny Brice! Funny Girl!"_

_"Rachel, oh my god, congratulations! I knew you had it in you," Quinn extolled, echoing the glee._

_"Did she tell you too? She's literally been hollering it out to everyone in the streets," Quinn heard a familiar voice in the background. The male slid into view, bumping Rachel out of her chair as he smiled. "Hi, Kurt. Cut her some slack, will you?" Quinn chortled, laughing as Rachel smacked Kurt on his arm sharply._

_"Thank you, Quinn, at least I know some people out there are supportive of my talent," she muttered, looking pointedly at Kurt as he checked his fingernails unabashedly. The expression was soon lost though, as Rachel put on a very serious look upon her face._

_"Have you heard from...anyone lately? Anyone from school, I mean," she asked, rather quietly. Quinn looked up from the report she had been reading; Rachel Berry and quiet weren't two words that went together._

_"Should I have heard from someone?" Quinn questioned back, looking from Rachel to Kurt, who shrugged uncomfortably._

_'Well, not really," the brunette onscreen mumbled, brushing strands of hair off her face, before proceeding to stare directly at Quinn. "Santana."_

_"What?"_

_"Santana, Quinn. Has she talked to you?"_

_Quinn gave her the most quizzical expression she could at the absurdity of the question. Santana wasn't a very common topic of discussion. Heck, the last time they were together, it had ended in them slapping each other across the face. Hard. Quinn hadn't spoken to her for months - how would she know what was happening?_

_"No." The bitterness in her voice made Rachel blink away from Quinn's gaze, and instead she opted to fiddle with the loose strings of Kurt's sweater. Regretting her tone, Quinn flashed a tight lipped smile. "Why?"_

_"No, nothing at all," she waved her hand airily. "I was just asking."_

_Quinn brought Rachel's gaze to her own, opening her mouth to speak. She changed her mind halfway in the process, opting to give Rachel a suspicious look._

_"Also, Quinn, is it okay if we, um, come over tomorrow? Probably in the evening, if that's fine."_

_Quinn stared at the two faces filling up her screen suspiciously; she had a feeling they had been waiting to ask her this question the whole time._

_"I guess so, I mean, I don't have plans...yet."_

Quinn had asked if they were coming over to stay, but after fifteen minutes of trying, she had failed to retrieve a proper answer, just vague hints. It was unnerving, because she liked stability. Anything without prior warning was just petrifying in all aspects, but this was Rachel Berry she was talking to; what's the worst that could happen? If the two of them were coming over to stay, she didn't worry that her stay there would be awkward; Rachel had been the only one Quinn had maintained contact with, and they had grown a lot closer after graduation, considering how helpful her existence had been through her high school journey. Quinn would have probably ended up in jail if it had not been for Rachel's common sense when she had been this close to accusing Shelby.

She stood up daintily, brushing off any grit from the back of her skirt. If they were to arrive as they said they would, it would be best to leave for home soon.

* * *

><p>"I truly think this is a fucking terrible idea," Santana whispered harshly, glaring from the backseat of the car.<p>

"And I supposed you had a better one?" Rachel asked, not bothering to face Santana.

"You are insane, Berry, have you forgotten that Quinn and I are not exactly homies right now?" she supplied angrily, as she ran her hands through her hair.

"You've mentioned that twelve times, and i've been counting. Thirteen is unlucky, just saying," Kurt called out from the front seat, turning around to face Santana.

"Shut it, Hummel," Santana shot back. "I don't see why I can't stay with you!"

"Because," Rachel pursed her lips, before sighing dramatically. "I've mentioned this more than once, and i'll say it again. Slowly. Kurt and I won't be in town for the month, and you need a place to stay, don't you? And on no account are we going to let you stay at our loft alone."

"Why not?!"

"You know perfectly well why not. I refuse to come back to find the place burnt down, or worse...ransacked," Rachel shuddered.

"You need to get your priorities straight, Rachel," Kurt grinned.

A string of expletives could be heard from the backseat, and Kurt squirmed outwardly. "Will you just calm down? It won't be that bad. And all your negative aura is messing up my hair."

"It won't be that bad? IT WON'T BE THAT BAD?" Santana shrieked. "Were you not listening to what I told you?" she threw her hands up in frustration. "God, you are such a dipshit," came the exasperated reply.

"Instead of calling me names, why don't you think of how your stay there is going to be? Don't be stupid, Santana, you need a place to stay and Quinn is the only viable option as of now. Suck it up, and its not like you have any other choice,' Rachel pointed out pertly, as the car slowly turned into a small alley.

Santana's protests stopped.

Not because she was willing to stay over at her house, but because Manhands in the front seat was actually making sense. It was true; she had nowhere and she was lost and alone in the chaotic city of New York, with a suitcase full of clothes and a heart full of dreams. Stripped of her cheerleading scholarship, she had turned up at the doorstep to the Bushwick Apartment, only to find that a week later she would have to be staying at Quinn Fabray's, of all people.

It was pointless and pathetic, really, that she honestly had nothing to cling onto at that moment. She couldn't bring herself to tell her parents that she had ditched enough school days (to visit Brittany) to cost her the scholarship Sue Sylvester had painstakingly got for her.

Nor could she tell them that she was supposed to be staying at Quinn's house for the summer break till she could apply to NYC.

It was all complete bullshit.

"No, i'm pretty sure her house is on the left."

"Its here, on the right! See that building, its her flat," Rachel supplied, turning the wheel to enter the carpark.

"Rachel, stop. Its here, trust me," Kurt tried to pull at the steering wheel, earning a shriek from the driver and a glare.

"No! Its there, look!" she repeated, with subtle force.

Santana leaned back in the backseat, chewing her tongue. It was taking every bit of self-control not to scream at the bickering pair in front of her. The scratching tones were doing nothing to ease her aggravating tension.

"You know i'm right, Kurt, don't push it," Rachel muttered, backing in slowly into the street. He gave a derisive snort, instead turning around to face Santana. "We're here. Do I have to remind you to-"

"Not be a bitch to Quinn? Yes, you've mentioned it, Lady Hummel, and I won't if she isn't one to me," Santana interrupted him midway, ignoring the grunt from Rachel.

"Quinn won't be one, trust me."

"We'll see about that," Santana mumbled quietly as the car came to an indefinite halt. She grabbed the handle of her bag, sighing as loudly as she could, before clambering out of the vehicle. The path from the carpark to the apartment was dimly lit, and there were several trees and shrubs lining the way. Santana cocked her brow; how quaint of Quinn.

"You can sigh and cry all you want; it's not going to make me change my mind," Rachel spoke, as she gestured at Kurt to follow. Santana raised her eyes to regard the brunette with an agitated glare. Since when did Rachel fucking Berry lay down the rules? Who was she to tell her what to do? Like she was helping Santana. She didn't want to be here, fuck no. She didn't need her help, or Quinn's, and she could stick it up her-

"I know what you're thinking, Santana, but its the only way for now, okay? When Kurt and I are back, you can always stay with us, and maybe you can even find your own place soon!"

Kurt gave a small sound of agreement from the back, and Santana turned around to see him texting on the phone. She couldn't help but roll her eyes; Blaine, obviously.

She would have clawed out Rachel's eyes, and possibly her vocal chords, if what she said wasn't the truth.

She needed a place to stay. Fact.

It took two hard raps on the wooden door before either of them heard the sudden scuffling of feet, followed by a soft grating noise as the door slid open, revealing a gleeful bronde.

"Rac-" Quinn's eyes widened momentarily, and the next moment she wished they hadn't done so; a shrieking blur of brown hair launched itself at Quinn, the strands tickling her eyes and the tightening hug tickling her ribs.

Oh, how she missed Rachel.

Quinn hugged her back, just as hard and just as passionate, before finally letting her go.

"I missed you," Rachel said softly, squeezing Quinn once again for emphasis as she held her along by the wrist, Kurt in tow.

He hurried towards her, enveloping her in a warm hug. "Its so good to see you, Kurt," Quinn exclaimed, mimicking the tight hug.

He let go, carefully scanning Quinn with his doe eyes as he smiled.

He'd gotten more handsome, his jawline bolder and his hair sleeker. Guess everyone was changing.

Sincere emotion had filled Quinn and it felt unfamiliar - it had been so long since she saw the them and despite the video and phone calls, seeing in real life and experiencing their familiarity all over again was just amazing. Being surrounded by those she had temporarily shunned made her feel awful yet so happy.

For a short while at least.

"Come in, and - oh," she paused mid sentence, staring at the new addition. She had just pulled back the door wider to give the duo more room to enter, when she caught of a very, very familiar soul lingering uncomfortably out of sight.

"Hi."

There was a mumbled, "Hello," in response, and it wouldn't take a genius to figure out that the temperature in the vicinity had dropped several notches as hazel eyes refused to meet Santana's own brown ones.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"Okayyyy, so, Quinn, let's go inside...we might have some issues to talk about. And I brought drinks!" Rachel chirped, her over-compensation for the uncomfortableness blatantly obvious. It seemed to break Santana out of her reverie, as she shrugged nonchalantly and made her way past Quinn into the apartment.

Quinn's eyes trailed the retreating figure, before whipping around to face Kurt, who was still standing outside. "Why is she here?" she hissed angrily, brow wrinkling.

Kurt bristled. "You'll see."


	2. Chapter 2

That Went Well

The weather during summer break proved to be far from the name. The cold seemed to have creeped in early, very, very early, and the weight of unspoken words and intangible tension in the air did nothing to elevate the temperature.

Santana dragged her anxiety-nibbled fingertips over the coffee table aimlessly, her eyes constantly flicking to the scene unravelling in front of her.

"You mean, she's going to stay here? With me?" Quinn shrieked, not at all caring to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She had spent the past minute pacing the carpeted floor, mumbling to herself and Santana had been on the verge of asking Kurt to call the ambulance while Rachel doggedly tried to make peace with Quinn.

"You're kidding, right?" she stared, from Rachel to Kurt, and then to Santana with a little dismissive shake of her head.

"Yes, she is, and no, we're not kidding, oh gosh, i'm so- we're so sorry we didn't tell you beforehand, we just thought-"

"Though what, Rachel? Thought I wouldn't agree? Because guess what, the chances of me actually approving of this agreement, with her," Quinn threw Santana an agitated look at this point, "is too little."

"I know, I know, Quinn, i'm so sorry! But we really need you to do this, she needs a place to stay and-"

"Why can't she stay at your place? I've seen your loft, Rachel, its huge, so don't give me that crap about not having space,' Quinn interjected, yet again. She was not going to give Rachel an upperhand in this argument. This was far too risky.

Kurt spoke up this time, shooting Rachel looks of pity. "We won't be here for a month, Quinn, and she can't go back to Lima. Its just a few weeks, Q, that's all," he said, giving her a meaningful look, but she could hear the desperation creeping into his tone.

"Just in case you all forget that i'm here, i'd like to point out that I have, quite vehemently, disagreed to this plan of action," Santana muttered coldly, causing the remaining occupants to face the new speaker.

"Shut it, Santana, you're not making this any easier," Kurt hissed, but no sooner had those words left his mouth he gave Santana an apologetic look. She grimaced in return.

There was a pause, and her brows were knitted with concern when she turned to face Santana. "Why?"

Santana levelled Quinn's gaze from the couch she was seated upon. What was she to say? That she had lost the one scholarship that guaranteed her life out of the suburban mundanity that was Lima, and that she had been too embarrassed to return home to face her mother, or that she was currently homeless and had been desperate enough to go to Rachel and Kurt for help. Was she to say that she had been a constant failure with not a single achievement she could recall in the last few years, and that staying here was her only option?

"Reasons," she shrugged dismissively, giving Quinn a long, hard look before glaring at Rachel. "Listen, can we just go back? This isn't working out, is it?" The words came spitting out of her mouth with ease.

Quinn groaned in exasperation. "I'm not a heartless bitch, Santana, but I should know why you're here, shouldn't I? You can't just come waltzing into my house with a suitcase and expect me to give you a room?!"

"Don't you get it? I. Don't. Want. To. Be. Here. There, was that too fucking hard to understand?"

"One more word and I will personally kick you out of the car if you try to get in," Rachel commented, her voice louder and bordering on anger. Santana's jaws slackened and she gaped at her. Was she being threatened? "Good, now that we're back on track," she continued, smiling sweetly at Santana before turning to Quinn, "Will you let her stay here for a while? She'll tell you why, and if she doesn't, just call me. I can give you a shorter version of the explanation."

Santana flinched, eyeing Rachel with a pensive look. Everyone seemed to know what a cock-up she had been, and here was Berry offering to tell Quinn about her life. She could already imagine the blonde gloating at her misery.

"Fine," Quinn relented, looking at Kurt, who just gave her a sombre doe-eyed smile.

Dinner that night was from a peaceful affair; Rachel and Kurt tried their hardest to make small-talk, amicably talking about anything under the sun to dissipate some of the tension, but it was futile. But despite their abysmal efforts, Quinn dreaded the moment they started to head back to their own place.

"Thanks again, Quinn," Rachel hugged her tightly, "I love you so much for this."

"You can always call if anything happens," Kurt offered, before pulling her in for a hug too.

Quinn gave a small smile. "You both owe me for this."

"Bye!"

She watched as the two left the apartment, and once they disappeared from sight, she felt ridiculously claustrophobic. She had always been, in fact, since high school, but she had thought she had gone over with that phase in life.

A heavy silence settled over them, thicker than the tension in the tiny dorm. Unsettled hazel eyes glanced at the other occupant unceremoniously, trying to avoid brown ones. Santana fumbled around for a while, before breaking the silence. "Are you going to do anything other than stare at me?"

"Do you have to be such an asshole all the time? I'm helping you out here, have some decency," she shot back.

Santana glared at her harshly. This was pathetic; she felt pathetic. "It wasn't like I wanted your help."

"Yeah, well, you certainly look like you could use it," Quinn replied with harsh honestly. She wasn't going to make her stay here pleasant, no, just liveable.

"Fuck you."

She took a revolted look around the living room, and before Quinn could respond, she headed to the bathroom, breathing with more force than necessary. She slammed the bathroom door with a shuddering thud behind her, causing Quinn to flinch involuntarily.

'Bitch," she muttered under her breath.

The moment the door slid shut, Quinn sighed deeply. The apartment was fucking tiny - how was Quinn not supposed to accidentally tread on Santana's toes, or worse, look at her, at this rate? Oh, god forbid she live happily. Here she was, running out of lazy joints to crack. There was something oddly satisfying about cracking knuckles, she thought, the sound of snapping bones and sore muscles.

Heck. she should just sleep before Santana came out. She was smart- she'd find out where the food and whatever she needed was. Quinn was tired and all she wanted was to sleep in bliss at least once. She stood up slowly, smoothing out her hair as she ducked into her room before collapsing onto her bed ungracefully. She stayed there, motionless for a few minutes; it was going to be long, dreadful month.

Eyes still closed, she felt around and fluffed up her pillow. It didn't dawn on her till then that the new occupant would need a place to sleep.

She didn't have a mattress of any sort, but she did have a couch. At least, that's what she'd like to think of it as. It wasn't huge, and it wasn't exactly soft and comfortable, but what made it so disgusting was that the springs had bent beneath the first layer, and it felt like Quinn was sleeping on roots when she first slept on it. Santana had given her loads of bullshit in the past, she still did, but travelling for hours in a cold dark night and spending it in a lumpy, insulting piece of furniture was frankly mean.

She hated Santana, but, she had basic etiquette to spare, at the very least. She dragged a thick blanket and two soft pillows up to the couch, leaving it there for her to find, before switching off the lone light in the living room as she returned to her room and closed the door.

The trickling drops of water echoed loud and clear in her room, and if it was there to serve as a taunting reminder of the new roommate, it was doing its job pretty well. She couldn't tell how long it was before the sounds of water died, but she guessed it to be half an hour. Santana was never the type to shower quickly, she knew that for a fact. Long hours of cheerios practice late into the night had taught her that.

With the darkness enveloping her, along with the warmth from the sheets that swathed her, she should have been more than comfortable. Dwelling in the past was never, and never will be, her forte, but she couldn't help but wonder how they had ended up here. Here, at this uncomfortable, weird phase of their friendship, after months of no contact except from the occasional tagged picture on facebook.

But then again, they hadn't really started off on good terms either.

_She'll stress over this tomorrow._

_Maybe never._

* * *

><p>- It was the first time -<p>

It was a breezy summer's day when they met. It wasn't particularly significant. The light breeze touched the leaves and they almost danced in the air. A small girl, wrapped in her warm coat; she could almost see the wind, for it seemed to move everything slightly, as if it were in control over the whole earth.

She had read about fairies that could create wind - wind fairies. Fairly creative, but sufficiently self-explanatory. She wanted to be a fairy sometimes. She reached up and tucked a blond lock of hair behind her ear as she patted her sandcastle, the soil still pleasantly damp from the previous shower.

She finished up the parapets on her sandcastle with a pleased smile, turning to collect more sand to construct her battlements. The sun was too bright for her liking, and for November; it made her squint and her cheeks flush, but her mom said she liked how the sun bounced off her blonde hair.

(her mom liked it.)

By the time she swivelled back with a plastic pail packed with damp sand, there was a tattered red shoe on the mound that was once her castle. She mourned momentarily before looking up. "That was mine." She said softly.

The dark-haired girl nodded, making brief eye contact with her. "I know." She looked away almost immediately; restless and edgy. The blonde frowned.

"That wasn't nice."

The brunette's gaze returned to the blonde below, and she nodded. It didn't matter though- she wasn't particularly concerned about her castle; she was getting bored of it anyways.

"I know." Her pupils darting across the playground almost surreptitiously. The blonde tried to divert her attention back to her, standing up and brushing damp grains of sand off the front of her coat. It was her favourite one. "Did you do it on purpose?"

The brunette nodded. "Yes."

She was confused. "Then why do you keep looking at him?" she turned around to openly stare at the local bully, only half-concealed behind the brick wall that separated the playground from the road, a smirk on his face and he gyrated with mirth.

Brown orbs flickered nervously to the aforementioned. "I wanted to do it. He made me, but I wanted to."

The blonde stared at her.

The terse silence dragged on and on. It was only the first in a long sequence of silences to come. The bully wasn't there anymore, and she could see the whisper of a smirk tugging at the edges of the brunette's lips, the smirk that would come to be her signature grin.

"I liked it, your castle." There was a hint of regret in the tone, but nothing more was said as they parted ways.

-and then, the second time -

This is how strangers meet - out of nowhere, the artistic product of a million coincidences. Perhaps a game of fate played by Destiny; it could be a fleeting encounter, a transient brush of shoulders in a touch and go but the rest is up to them - to paint a story or tell a tale.

But little Quinn Fabray didn't have the heart nor was she the age to wrap her mind around this vague concept as she bit her lip, trying hard not to cry as she gingerly touched the searing gash on her cheek. It wasn't shallow, nor was it deep, but to a nine-year-old, the pain could have been equivalent to jumping head first into a volcano.

It was painful.

It had started off as an average day in the Fabray household, and Quinn had been on her way to the library - a little tradition she felt quite proud of. Not many of her friends read books, not that she had (m)any in the first place, and it made her feel slightly special that she could experience them more than her peers. The tangled intricacies on smooth paper flowed through her and for that short while that she was immersed in them, the confinement and loneliness of the outside world that seemingly embedded itself in her head seemed to disappear.

And it felt good. Maybe because the tales woven so carefully around magic fairies and beautiful little princesses were so like her fantasies, and as she swallowed every word on the page carefully, it gave her some hope that maybe, just maybe, she could one day be like them. Be that girl everyone adored and loved, with golden fairydust that constantly surrounded her in a halo, with bravery and irresistible beauty, with translucent wings that shimmered mystically against the sky and-

-the list was endless.

But there were always some words that Quinn didn't know. They were hard to pronounce, like her cousin's name which had an 'x' in the middle, or those words with silent alphabets that her teacher would read out. She didn't mind them; she would still be able to understand what the story was about - golden fairies and beautiful princesses and chivalrous knights.

(she didn't know what superficial meant yet)

Her mother had scolded her, quite badly, for waking up late that day. Quinn told herself to never do that again. Eight in the morning means eight in the morning, not a minute later.

Her sister had taken money from her piggy bank (again) and despite being asked politely, she had refused to return it, instead giving Quinn a candy wrapper before running off spitefully.

(it cost the same as the amount missing from her bank)

She had cried. It was the money she had saved to buy Vanessa a birthday present. Quinn thought Vanessa was a nice friend, and friends buy each other presents. She had been told that everything comes at a price, when her dad had given her a good beating for spilling milk on the counter once.

The beating was the price for spilling milk of the counter.

Just like presents were the price of friendship, she thought.

But she suddenly didn't think Vanessa was that much of a friend when she remembered how she had called Quinn fat. It was mean, but Quinn knew she shouldn't cry.

Nonetheless, she had gone to tell her mom about Frannie and the money, but her mom had told her to 'go away' and to not 'disturb her'.

And so Quinn had thrown the wrapper away quietly, told her mother she was off to the library before grabbing her favourite coat and making her way to the old building. The playground was undergoing construction, and Quinn had been left stranded on how to spend lonely days cooped up in her room till she found out that books had a certain magic that sandcastles didn't quite have.

There wasn't anything else that she could do, and it was on her way there that she crashed front-first into a speeding bicycle at the turn. Wild shock was all that painted on Quinn's face as she found herself falling, almost instantaneously, onto the gravel at the side of the path. She didn't feel the immediate pain of rock-against-skin, but instead an eerie numbness on her right cheek. Her face was tingling; buzzing with heightened sensitivity and it was only moments after did the burning agony pierce through.

Quinn touched the wound with caution.

(her mum had told her to not get dirty)

She slowly pushed herself up, her feet stretched out on the pathway as she stared at the girl who had appeared in front. It was a very familiar brunette.

"Oh, shit."

Quinn's eyes widened by a slight fraction at the word. She didn't think children were allowed to speak of those fearful things.

"Are you okay?"

Brown orbs seemed more piqued with curiosity then concern as the girl hopped down unsteadily from the (damned) bicycle, holding it by the handlebar with one hand as she held out the other for Quinn to take. It felt odd - the very person who had ruined her sandcastle was helping her up.

Her dark hair was dancing slightly in the wind, but she seemed unfazed as several strands covered her eyes. Quinn took the girl's hand, propping herself up carefully. She made sure, even in her pain, to not make the girl bear the full brunt of her weight as she pulled her up.

(there is a very thin line between independence and insecurity)

She grimaced slightly, regretting it as the fleeting tautness of skin sent searing pains behind her temple.

"Don't you watch where you're going?" The girl asked brashly, with just the right hint of annoyance.

Quinn was thrown off by the statement; it wasn't her fault the girl didn't know how to ride a bicycle. She opened her mouth to retaliate, almost affronted that she was to be blamed, but thought against it. Her cheek was hurting quite badly now, and she could feel the warm crimson liquid pooling out. Tears pricked the back of her eyes as she gulped down the pain, wondering how she was going to go about with her face covered in blood. She envisioned her exaggeratedly bloodied face and paled internally for a moment.

"Oh, no, you're crying."

That girl would make an excellent commentator, Quinn thought, wondering vaguely if she was supposed to respond to the indefinite statement. She quickly rubbed at her eyes, before looking at her again.

"Argh, um, does it hurt?" she asked tentatively, the confidence and cockiness fading away as she propped her bicycle against the stand. She stared at the gash of Quinn's cheek, eyes crinkled in mangled horror and awe as Quinn nodded slowly.

She remained crouched for a moment before she stood up abruptly. Quinn's eyes darted towards her, as she watched the brunette fumble around her boyish shorts, brandishing out a small handkerchief proudly.

She hesitated briefly, before bending and gently dabbing the handkerchief around the bruised cheek. It wasn't long before a patch of crimson appeared on the cotton, spreading slowly like blotched ink on paper.

Quinn hissed, scrunching her face up in anguish.

"Its okay," she muttered softly, dragging her face away from the now-damp cloth.

"Are you dumb? Obviously its not okay," came the vindictive response, as the dark-haired girl's small, yet warm and nimble fingers found their way to Quinn's cheek again, this time pressing harder in an attempt to stop the blood flow. From the corner of her eyes, Quinn could vaguely see red fingers.

_She's really brave._

Quinn wondered, realising that she wouldn't be willing to touch her own blood like that.

"Hold it there for a while," she instructed.

Quinn didn't really know what else to do, and so she held it against the broken skin, tightly against the pain. The handkerchief was bloodied and wet, the previously pale blue now a dark red smeared with brown. She remembered when she had gotten her own handkerchief soiled;

_She had been looking for flowers in her backyard. A small little garden with growing, pesky weeds that her mother so often loved to trim away - but Quinn thought they were just part of the flower family. She had been tending to this one particular flower when her handkerchief had slipped out into the damp patch of mud. She had been quick, bending down instinctively to pick it up faster than it had dropped, but there was mud on the lace. Pity, it was a pretty little thing - a light, mellow pink with a lace border. She didn't really like pink, but her mom had said she should like the colour, so she supposed it was for the best. It was browned at the edges and as she quietly traipsed back into the house through the back door, Frannie's eyes hadn't missed the stained handkerchief, and her legs hadn't been that slow as the older girl ran to tell on Quinn. She had gotten a sound beating, and also consequently found out the definition of the word 'brat' as she looked it up a few hours after her mom had called her that._

"Will your mom scold you?" Quinn asked, hazel orbs flickering to the brunette and the cloth in her hand back and forth.

"For? The handkerchief?" she asked, eyeing the crimson cloth humorously, "Nope, she won't."

"But you have to return it though, my abuela made it for me," she added as an afterthought.

Her abuela didn't, really. She just wanted it back.

"Abuela?"

"Grandma."

"Oh."

(she had learnt a new word.)

The bleeding stopped after a while, but the wound was still open and raw as ever. "Does it still hurt?" the brunette asked, walking around Quinn to inspect the wound. It didn't seem as bad as before, but it still looked painful.

"A little."

"You should get a band-aid on it."

Quinn nodded, not bothered as much by that pain but more worried about how her mother would react if she saw her daughter walk around with a huge scar on her face. She shuddered at the thought.

"And, um," the brunette started sheepishly, waving her hands around to indicate the invisible mess she had landed Quinn in. It seemed almost painful to apologise, and she decided not to.

(not that she was sorry about it in the first place.)

Quinn was vaguely surprised with the sudden change in attitude, arching her brows questioningly.

There was a brief pause before the brunette just shook her head.

"I'm Quinn," she offered.

"Santana."

They parted ways soon after, with just a stained handkerchief as a subtle bond between two. That's how they became friends; just two young and friendless children with a penchant for lying to one another. Friends, they called themselves.

They were lying again; they were both just too lonely and didn't want to admit it.

- followed by the third -

They were nine when they officially met, and exactly a week passed before they saw each other again; Santana on her bicycle and Quinn on her way to the library. They met yet again at the same spot, the narrow pathway with the turn but this time, the bicycle slowed to a halt a metre earlier.

Quinn tightened her coat around her, her expression calmly vacant when she saw her.

"Hi," she breathed.

There was a beat.

Santana didn't return the greeting; just shrugged. Quinn didn't sound like she meant it anyways, she reflected silently. (she didn't) She slouched, one foot angled expertly on the pavement as her bicycle leaned leftwards.

"That happy to see me?"

The smirk that was coupled with the statement was inevitable.

Quinn shook her head mutely. "No." She lied again.

Santana scowled, but she had expected the response. "How's your..." the brunette's voice trailed off, brown eyes lingering on the band-aid on Quinn's pale face as she pointed to her own right cheek airily.

"Its better now, it was only a small cut anyways."

But it hadn't seemed like 'only a small cut' to her mother when Quinn had come tiptoeing back into the house. She had been furious at what she called an unsightly gash on her cheek, and had promptly sent her up to the room with newer bruises and tears.

Santana's scowl only deepened

"I still have your hanky," she added after a deliberate pause.

"Oh, good. I thought you ran off with it."

"I washed it myself, but its at home right now." Quinn said, the touch of pride in her tone quite obviously showing. She had painstakingly washed off the stain that very night, lest it became permanent and anyone saw her. The end product had been a piece of cloth so worn yet smelling excessively of fruit-scented hand soap and Dettol.

"I'll come over," the brunette replied, almost immediately, unabashed. Santana's straightforwardness stunned Quinn time after time.

She raised her eyebrows in rude inquiry. "To my house? You can't come now!"

"Why not?" she retorted, arms folded sardonically against her chest as she stared defiantly at Quinn.

Quinn's eyes broke away from the gaze, her brows furrowed.

"Fine, but you'll have to stay outside. My mom might scold if she sees you."

Santana was vaguely surprised; she didn't think the blonde girl in front of her would even consider it. She allowed herself a private smile at the thought.

She shook her head anyways. "I want to see your house." The path from which Quinn seemed to come led to the north of Lima, where all the lavish mansions with fountained gardens with tulips and hibiscus grew, or so she had heard. She wanted to see it for herself.

Quinn shook her head too, mocking her. She felt ridiculous with the glaring band-aid on her cheek. It was uncomfortable whenever she smiled. She tried not to smile much.

She wanted to throw back Santana's own words at her; Are you dumb?'

But fairies weren't mean.

And so she settled on frowning. "No, my mom doesn't like it when my friends come over."

"Really?" Santana asked, saccharine sarcasm blatant.

"Really," Quinn echoed, only for Santana to give a snort and a derisive shake of her head.

"She'll scold me." But Santana's smile didn't waver. She didn't care about what Quinn said. "And you." She didn't want to believe her.

"How many friends have you brought over?"

_Shit_.

Quinn was momentarily stunned; she had thought a bad word. Oh no.

She had half a mind to slap Santana for all the nonsense she was causing, but she could feel herself losing her edge over the brunette as the smirk on latter's face widened, even though she doesn't even know what she's going to say. It was that smile that only appeared when she knows she's going to win an argument, Quinn thought to herself. She had seen it too many times on Frannie's face to let it slip past unacknowledged.

Santana's smirk screamed satisfaction as it broadened even further. "How many friends do you have?"

Quinn was silent.

Padded footfalls echoed faintly against the path, too loud for Quinn's liking as she passed by broad leafed shrubbery, swaying softly in the breeze. The occasional crunch of the crackling canopy of dead leaves behind her made her flinch, and the constant, slow whirring of the steel-wire wheel of her bicycle made her feel queasy.

The breeze fluttered around, gently caressing everything it touched with fingers that had been a comfort to so many over lonely years, but there and then, it couldn't have been less called for

They walked in silence, like a weirdly orchestrated tune of footsteps and leavings crunching underfoot, featuring lone, random bird calls. She hoped they were canaries. She had read that some fairies rode on canaries, like how humans rode horses - except birds could fly. There was this one book she had read days ago - a thin cardboard cover with the title 'The Fairy Who Won" emblazoned in gold on the front, proudly; regally. It talked about winged horses, called Unicorns, but Quinn thought it was ridiculous.

Fairies were real, not unicorns.

The path became clearer as the row of houses came into view. The growing, looming presence of the mundane pastel-washed houses was doing nothing to simmer down Quinn's inner turmoil. She had never invited a friend over before.

If that's what Santana was.

She stopped at the side of the iron-wrought gate, turning around to look expectantly at Santana, and was greeted by an expression of mild surprise as brown orbs raked the two-storey house in front of them. It was a welcoming change to the permanent scowl that Santana seemed to wear all the time.

"Your house is huge."

Quinn flushed silently. "I guess...its not very homey though."

Santana didn't seemed to hear as she she peered through the squares in the gate, craning her neck so much that Quinn feared she might get her head stuck there.

"No!" Quinn whispered, flushed, as Santana leaned forward to push the gates open. "We go by the back."

Santana stared at her, her face simply inscrutable. "Why not the front? You have a door for a reason,"

"My mom might be there!"

Santana huffed dramatically, but quietly followed the blonde through the bushes nonetheless. It was with twitchy fingers and a thumping heartbeat that Quinn slowly pushed open the door, beckoning for Santana to follow before quickly dashing across the empty kitchen, and up the stairs to the second floor.

Frannie's room was right beside hers, and Quinn could wholeheartedly bet on all her books that if her sister caught even a whiff of Santana in her room, she'd be on the way to tell on her before Quinn could even blink.

It was a given that she had the sense to be as inconspicuous as possible.

"Shhhhh," she whispered, gingerly walking along the hallway. Every shadow seemed alive and every movement larger and louder than life at that moment.

"I didn't make any noise!"

"Stop walking so loudly!"

"Shut up!" Santana bristled, annoyed as she followed the blonde quickly down the hallway and into the latter's room. Quinn huffed, not bothering to respond, instead proceeding to her cupboard to rummage for the handkerchief as the other occupant inspected every nook and cranny of the pink-walled room.

A few moments passed in silence, with the occasional scuffle of drawers, but the quiet was broken by a gagging noise. Quinn spun around at the noise, the cloth in one hand. "What?"

"Too much pink," Santana supplied, sticking out her tongue.

Quinn rolled her eyes, but nodded, scanning her room distastefully, "I don't really like it either."

"Then why?"

"My mom said it was nice. Plus, Frannie's room is the same colour."

Santana scoffed rudely in response. "My mom said it was nice," she mimicked, "its not like its her room. Is she your sister? Frannie, I mean."

"Yeah," Quinn replied. "Do you have a sister too?"

"Nope, only child."

She was examining Quinn's bookcase, which if had a voice would groan with the exertion of all the books. There were some of Quinn's favourites, and she had taken the time last summer to arrange it all in alphabetical order. "You read a lot."

Quinn nodded, slightly pleased that someone had noticed -her interests were rather invisible in the house she lived in. "That's why I go to the library."

"Was that where you were going now? And last week?"

"Yeah," Quinn said. "You should come one day." She added, after a brief pause.

Santana was about to reply, when all too soon, there was a crunch of gravel outside as a car pulled back into the driveway, then the clunk of car doors, and footsteps on the garden path.

Quinn's eyes widened.

Thus, it was with great speed and annoyance that Santana found herself unceremoniously pushed out of the house through the back door, faster than she had even entered, with Quinn dragging her as they quickly escaped before either of her parents could spot them.

* * *

><p>Santana slid open the door quietly. It felt weird, having to be so careful around Quinn. Heck, she never had been. The last time she was over at Quinn's, she had climbed in through the window because that's how well-acquainted she was with the Fabray household. She clearly hadn't been careful, considering how she nearly broke the window pane.<p>

Quickly tying up her curls in her towel, she looked around for a clock. The room was smothered in darkness, but it wasn't that hard to find the tiny glow-in-the-dark alarm by the counter.

_10.32pm_

'That went well,' the voice in her head sniggered, and Santana could almost feel the surplus sarcasm dripping off. A whole month of this to endure, and she was only barely a few hours in.


	3. Chapter 3

Away From You

The stiffness of her neck was enough to tell her she hadn't slept in a comfortable position.

She groaned softly, twisting and turning her neck. The muscles felt sore, and a small sigh escaped her as she cracked each joint. She refused to open her eyes just yet, and in any case, it was too early to be up. Maybe the events of last night had just been one, very complicated, very twisted dream. People had those, right?

Her resolve to keep her eyes shut crumbled almost as soon as it had come, and she blinked away the brightness. Maybe she just missed her friends too much, and she had this crazy vision that Santana was here to stay.

* * *

><p>"This place stinks."<p>

That was the first thing Santana had muttered when Quinn brought her to the neighbourhood library. Lima wasn't known for being ahead of its developments, what with it being horribly mediocre in all aspects and Quinn couldn't help but agree with Santana. But she didn't voice her opinion out loud.

"Go read a book, Santana."

Santana stopped pacing between the shelves to stare at Quinn.

"How about no?"

Quinn huffed.

"What else do you want to do? Its a library, for god's sake!"

"I don't do books, Quinn, and you should know that," she replied coolly.

Soon after, Santana had refused to go to the library, claiming it to be an extreme waste of her precious weekend and Quinn's previous arrangements on burning her weekend off at the library changed to following Santana on her adventures.

It wasn't the appropriate word, but she brought Quinn to places she never knew existed in her neighbourhood and Quinn thought it was an adventure. She felt like a fairy sometimes, traipsing behind the dark-haired girl as she gingerly trod on dirt paths and leaned against rough bark in small clearings. She felt like a fairy in the midst of woodland creatures, just like the books had said. But sometimes even as much as Quinn didn't want to, she knew she was way past that age where she could simply believe creatures of mythicality existed.

Quinn was a clever girl for her age, and she had seen Frannie grow through her years, and she knew that children her age go to parks or the pool, not to uncharted little forests and through dark alleyways. She didn't need to ask, but she knew that Santana realised it too. And it made her feel special, because yet again she was experiencing something her classmates could not, and as rare as it was, she felt happy with herself at times like that.

She didn't really understand why she was hanging around the girl who had destroyed her castle. She had seen some of those Disney shows her sister watched, and read ample books to give her a rough gauge of how friends were. They would be around each other all the time, calling each other, playing dolls, tell each other how much they liked them. But she and Santana were anything but that. She cussed and sweared, at her, at everything, yet she stuck with her. Santana was in a different elementary school, while Quinn was stuck in another. Santana was mean, brash and brazen with words in a way Quinn loathed yet admired,but it was as much of a friend she knew she could ever get, and she knew how to make do with what life offered.

If a 'friend' was the appropriate word to describe Santana.

But unplanned meetings become deliberate, occasional spiralled into daily and soon, they were inseparable.

_Not because they wanted it, but because they had no choice._

And so, she found herself, many, many months later, waiting for Santana at that same little turn in the pathway, and it was within minutes that she heard the familiar footfalls behind her.

"Hey," Quinn said, with neither smile nor any sign of joy. It had become some sort of routine to suppress excitement.

"You didn't turn up yesterday."

It was the type of thing Santana would say. A direct statement, honesty (brutally) and straight to the point. She didn't beat about the bush, no, she plucked it right out by its roots.

"I know." Quinn didn't know how to respond to statements like this.

"I went to your house to find you."

Quinn looked up at her, startled and worried. "Did anyone see you?" Her mother was still persistent that Quinn did not bring anyone home, unlike Frannie who seemed to be throwing slumber parties every other day.

"I doubt it, I climbed the tree," she replied nonchalantly, as if climbing trees were a daily occurrence.

"I wasn't at home till late," Quinn muttered.

"I _think_ I figured that part out, since I went to your house and all."

Quinn ignored the sarcasm.

"Why?" Santana ventured. She sounded as dry and bored as ever, but Quinn knew better. Dry and bored, in Santana's thesaurus, were synonyms for 'fervent interest'.

"I was at school; I had things to...sort out," Quinn muttered cautiously.

Truth was, she had been locked in one of the unused classrooms by a group of gangly, malicious kids who she barely even knew.

"_Hey."_

_Quinn turned around, surprised, at the girl in front of her. She knew who she was; one of those popular kids, and she was startled because she had been sure she has never spoken to anyone outside of her bubble of giggling followers - who, in Quinn's view, had the glossy appearance of expensive prostitutes; but she knew better than to say it out loud. _

_She looked behind to see who she was talking to, and on finding no one there, realised that she's the receiving end of her words. Her posse hovered behind her, unsure of why she was talking to Quinn of all people. _

_Quinn knew she was being delusional as heck if she thought the girl towering above her wanted to be friends._

_Quinn stared at her, hesitantly. "Hi."_

_She faced Quinn, smirking lasciviously in a manner that Quinn disliked instantly._

"_What do you want?" Quinn asked. It was bold as it was stupid to ask something so direct so rudely, but Quinn knew it would end ugly either way. She wondered how Santana did it so tirelessly._

_The girl smirked, showing all of her perfect teeth, as if taunting Quinn's own braced ones. _

"_Aw, li'l fatty's standing up," she paused; deliberately and confidently, turning around to look at her subjects, before returning to Quinn. _

_It was a pathetic remark, but her posse found it hilarious; chortling with laughter._

_Quinn didn't really know what she expected, but it still struck her. Before she could even feel insulted or muster up a rebuttal, she found herself being pushed head-first into the classroom, that ever so conveniently stood welcomingly beside, and she heard the door lock with a click. She could hear boisterous chortling as their footsteps outside faded._

_Quinn sniffled, looking around at the dingy classroom. On the whole, she thought she was to be congratulated for not bursting out in tears. _

Suffice to say, she was stuck in there for a long time till a kindly janitor noticed her inside and let her out - way past the time when she usually met Santana.

Santana narrowed her eyes at her. "Things to sort out?"

"Mhm."

If Quinn was showing any discomfort, Santana blatantly chose to ignore it, prodding further. "What things, exactly?"

"Its none of your business," Quinn snapped, eager for the conversation to end.

She dismissed this by blowing a small puff of air through her lips. "Really, Quinn? You might as well tell me what happened before I leave."

Quinn mulled it over. Whatever reputation she had retained had irrevocably been shattered in that classroom; she didn't have anything else to lose, did she? And it wasn't like Santana was going to tell anyone.

So, she told Santana.

And she was very much pleased when she spotted the same girl who had locked her in the classroom sporting a bright purple bruise on her cheek two days later.

* * *

><p>But times change, and people change with it. She wasn't the clingy teenager who depended on Santana, or vice versa. So what if she did miss her, a bit? Dreams had a way of bringing back the past, but it had been vividly real. No matter, she was still the sole inhabitant in her apartment.<p>

It was futile to try to get more sleep, and it was too bright to even try. She eased herself off the bed, grabbing the bathrobe in the process and headed off to the shower. As she passed through the living room, her tired gaze fell on the muffled, covered lump on the couch, rising and falling periodically with each breath. Maybe it was her brain's stupid defense mechanism, or just simple hope, or whatever the heck it was, but it was real.

Santana Lopez was here, living with her; flesh and attitude and all included.

Quinn sighed as she walked past the sleeping figure and into the bathroom. Maybe, just maybe, they could live together without bickering; having no primal contact would also be good.

She had to swallow down a humourless bark of laughter; how was she to ignore Santana? There was honestly no one more in-your-face than the girl sleeping on her couch, and they both knew that.

The mirror was starting to steam, and she might as well spend all the time she had as best as she could before _she _woke up.

She wasn't one to shower this early in the morning, and as she left the bathroom, the cold air was less refreshing than it was shocking. Coffee might do her some good, she thought, as she left her room and to the kitchen. It was already pushing eight in the morning, and she had absolutely no plans at all for the day. Maybe a book or two, some netflix - she wasn't one to make grand plans. It wasn't that she didn't have many friends - she actually did, and quite a lot - but there was something about independency and self-sufficiency that appealed to Quinn. She had enough of friend-related drama to last her a lifetime, thanks to Santana.

.

Santana smelled coffee.

The strong scent of caffeine was an admirable alarm clock, and she shifted herself closer to the nook of the couch to get more warmth. But there was a limit to how comfortable a couch could be; especially one that squeaked with every toss and turn.

She opened her eyes, confused when she couldn't see the familiar pastel drapes Kurt had splurged on. Unfamiliar surroundings were scary, and Santana raised her head to peer from the side of the couch. There was a tiny table at the corner, a sofa on the right and a bookcase mounted on the wall; all different shades of grey.

How depressing.

Then she remembered. She was at Quinn's.

She looked around to reaffirm, sadly, that yes, it was her house that she was trapped in. _Fucking Rachel Berry_. Propping herself up on her elbows, she craned her neck to squint into the room on the right. The door was left ajar, and Santana caught a glimpse of a pair of legs. Quinn's, obviously.

Whatever optimism that had remained within her fluttered away at that sight, and a pained expression took over her features as she collapsed back onto the couch.

* * *

><p>The school she attended had a mixed populace of three types of people; those whom the rest <em>wanted to be<em>, those whom the rest _disliked_, and those in the middle, whom the rest _couldn't really care about_. She belonged in the third demographic. The social ladder was such that the higher ranking kids didn't associate with her, and those like her knew better than to bother her, which leaves her completely undisturbed, the way she likes it. The fragile peace between her and the rest of the student body remained.

People cannot simply sit by and expect friends to just steer towards them, she understood that part very well. Relationships do not change on their own. Friendship — it doesn't change itself. This she knew from watching her cousins - three, in fact - grow up, getting new friends and even female counterparts.

Santana knew how hard her oldest cousin worked to enter the currently stable relationship he had started with his girlfriend. She knew how much it meant to her other cousin to be popular; to be one of those jocks flanked by a posse of faithful followers. But at the tender age of 10, she hadn't known how they did all the things they did- how to _initiate _even the barest relationship with her classmates.

She had spent time wondering if it was something wrong with her, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. She knew she wasn't ugly, she wasn't fat, she wasn't dumb (but not exceptionally smart either), but she knew one thing for sure; being undisturbed was fine, being _lonely, _on the hand, was getting exasperating. She needed a friend, period. Just a pseudo-friend, at least, someone disposable - just so that she wouldn't look stupid.

Friend as accessory.

And so, when she bumped, or, more appropriately, crashed, into the blonde girl two years ago ago, she had decided to give a half-hearted try at this whole 'initiation' process. Santana knew who she was; not her name, but the fact that she existed, liked to build sandcastles, was rich and from what she had seen, quite the loner.

She remembered vaguely destroying her little sandcastle two years ago. She hadn't wanted to, in all honesty, but she didn't feel very remorseful either. Just like how she wasn't particularly concerned about her handkerchief when she handed it to her after her nasty fall. As far as she was concerned, it wasn't an act of kindness. Well, not completely. It was partly her way of attempting to close up the debt - for the sandcastle. She hated the feeling of owing something to someone; it made her feel like a kid. Except that she was one, but it made her feel so dependent on _someone _who wasn't herself and she hated it.

Anyways, she didn't particularly like the handkerchief; it had been her mother's.

"_But you have to return it though, my abuela made it for me."_

No, she didn't.

Santana, to this day, didn't really understand why she had lied so effortlessly about something that was so utterly trivial, but she had hoped that the fact that it seemed to be so significant to Santana would make Quinn come to her again. And it had, barely a week after she had given it away to the girl.

But as she twirled the cloth between her fingers, making her way back home after _accidentally _causing the girl who locked Quinn up to fall, she knew it was just a relationship formed out of convenience, on both their parts.

* * *

><p><em>Damn.<em>

She'd already read that paragraph twice absently.

Trying to read a book was proving far too difficult that she had given it credit for, what with groans of varying pitch radiating off the couch. She sighed darkly - she seemed to be doing that an awful lot these days - and folded the edge of the book. She'd get to it later, tonight maybe, and instead reached out for her phone at the foot of her bed.

There were two unread messages; one from her roommate, and yet another, from Rachel.

She didn't bother to open the one sent from the roommate, and proceeded directly to Rachel's.

**Sorry :( how's it going so far? **

Quinn pursed her lips; how's it going so far?

Splendid.

Great.

Fabulous.

Amazing.

She wondered which of the adjectives sounded the most sarcastic, but she had to remind herself that Rachel was just trying to help out a friend. The reason, however, was something Quinn had yet to unearth.

**Could be a lot better, but its fine. **

She hit send, pausing momentarily after, to wonder if she should have added a smiley face.

Rachel didn't deserve it...yet.

There was a loud grumble, and Quinn's eyes darted to the figure smothered in blankets on the couch. It was hers, but she did not need Santana hearing her hunger, though that was her least concern. There was some bread and peanut butter in the kitchen, but she figured her guest would need food to satisfy her stomach as well. She might as well eat outside on the way to the library; plus, the less she saw of Santana, the less trouble there could be, she figured.

She gingerly trudged out of her room, and a quick glance at the clock told her it was almost noon. Her eyes automatically fell to the figure on the couch, not at all surprised that she hadn't woken up yet. She grabbed her keys, her purse, and with another sweeping look, she left her apartment.

Her eyes darted open at the tinkling of keys, and by the time the shuffling of footsteps had long been muffled, Santana was awake. About time, she thought, as she stared up at the clock.

_11.30_

Considering how she had been forced to stay at someone else's house for the night, long hours of sleep was completely justified. And it gave her less of an opportunity to stare at blondie's face, which was good. She sat up, quickly examining the room with a critical eye. Quinn had left, to do what at where - something Santana couldn't give less of a fuck about. For now, she needed to make sure the place she was staying was suitable (and mostly, comfortable.)

It could have been substantially worse, and Quinn's apartment was no mansion but it was neat. Santana didn't do neat, she did mess, but it was a refreshing sight from the Bushwick apartment she had shared with Kurt and Rachel temporarily. They were far off the spectrum, with Santana waking up one day to find an inflatable arm under her bed. She had brought it up, and from the looks of it, it was indefinitely Kurt. She smirked at the memory as she stood up to check out the house. While the furniture consisted of items she would have personally never picked, it wasn't horrible and Santana felt a smudge of gratitude deep down.

She cautiously entered the single room that extended out, where Quinn had been. It was the same minimalist theme here too, and there was a closet at the far end of the room. She was tempted to inspect it but, guilty conscience, no matter how insignificant, still exists. She let out a bitter grunt, returning to the couch and simply sat on it.

It dawned on her that she couldn't get out of the house. Quinn had taken the keys, and she highly doubted she'd leave spare ones lying around.

Fuck.

She couldn't, and she was trapped within these four walls with nothing to do - Quinn's college textbooks did not count - till she came back home. If she came back today, of course. How would Santana know if Quinn decided to spontaneously go for a stupid fucking sleepover and leave her all alone? Ugh.

She needed a deterrent; and she steered herself towards the kitchenette, opening the cupboards at random to find something to eat. There was bread, and a jar of peanut butter, but no coffee. She could swear there had been the scent of coffee wafting through the apartment a few hours ago, but clearly there was none in sight. Grumbling, she fixed herself a sandwich, twisted the lid back onto the jar and headed back towards the main area of the apartment while licking the excess spread off her fingers.

She scanned the room slowly as she sat back down, her eyes settling on a laptop at the table. She stared at it for a long minute; social networking was fundamental, but even she knew there would be a password. Quinn wasn't that stupid.

It was going to be a long day.

She could safely say she hadn't at all noticed that time had passed, and before she noticed, it had simmered into late evening. It was almost a blessing that the library on campus was still open to students for use, despite it being the holidays. If there was one thing she liked about the college, it was that she could get lost amongst the creaking bookcases and thousands of books for hours on end, and she loved it.

She was sprawled on the carpeted floor, book on hand and phone in another. She had made plans to leave after lunch, but she had met a friend at the library and though it was a conscious decision to stay, she couldn't help but regret it a bit. God knows what Santana was doing at home alone. A quick glance at her watch told her it was time to leave, and she noticed that in an hour, it'll be a whole hour spent with Santana. Technically, at least, considering how they hadn't spoken at all, save for the argument that erupted the night before.

Dragging herself to put the book back in place, she allowed herself a small sigh of relief. Another day ending soon; it have her hope for the future.

But hope was a dangerous thing, she had come to realise a long time back.

She found herself walking quietly along the corridor, frowning at the flickering lights that lined the ceiling. They were as useless as they were ugly, and she found herself staring upwards at them as she walked. The lights in her apartment, though, were illuminated like no tomorrow and a contrast to the bleary outside. Unless Santana had a plan to send the electricity bills skyrocketing, she was going to have to steer clear of the switches.

She entered the house, not bothering to look for the other occupant as she headed straight towards the kitchen. Skipping lunch proved to be a grave mistake, thought she had assumed the big breakfast she had would have helped her last till evening. She settled on making herself a clumsy cup of tea when she felt a presence; her eyes boring holes into her head.

Quinn spun around, startled, narrowly missing the hot cup of tea that sat daintily on the countertop. Panicked eyes landed on Santana as she leaned against the doorframe, and Quinn's features relaxed. It was only momentary; they were soon replaced by an expression of utmost irritation.

"Aren't you a little jumpy," Santana remarked coolly.

Quinn ignored her, turning her back towards Santana to find a huge wad of tissue paper to mop up some of the spilt tea.

"What do you want?" Quinn asked wearily, not bothering to maintain any eye contact; the mess she had made was far more important than giving Santana respect.

"I just got the impression that I made you uncomfortable."

Quinn turned slowly, till she was level with Santana. "You do. Very much, in fact."

She scowled, but it was soon replaced by a sneer. Her eyes trailed Quinn as she walked to the dustbin, disposing the damp sodden tissue. "Its mutual, don't worry. Anyways, I need keys."

She watched as Quinn straightened up, expecting her to reply but what she did not expect was for Quinn to walk past her, both hands clasped around the steaming mug of tea. Patience was thinning, and she waited for some acknowledgement, but Quinn merely went to her room.

"I said, I need keys. This place is driving me nuts and I can't just wait for you to come and go," Santana repeated, the decibels rising as she followed Quinn into her own room.

"I believe I am in full possession of two ears, Santana, and no, I can't give you my keys. In case you forgot, its my house," Quinn replied calmly, looking up from her mug.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do here then?" Santana snarled, staring at her squarely.

"I don't know! I wasn't the one who asked you to come here, was I? Find something to do. Read, maybe!" Quinn snapped, setting the mug down before facing Santana. "You don't get to tell me what to do."

"I can't read for fucking hours, can I?"

"Well, tough luck. I can't give you my keys, and that's final." Quinn retorted. She was done with this conversation; so done. And in case Santana didn't get it, Quinn sat down on her bed, kicking her feet up.

"Tough luck, Q," Santana echoed, her voice dangerously low. "In case you haven't noticed, i'm human. I need to move about."

"That's news to me," Quinn spat back, her voice crisp with anger. "Get out of-"

"Your room? No, I don't think so," Santana interrupted coolly, taking a few steps towards Quinn till the blonde had to tilt her head up to speak to her. She felt a flicker of cockiness when Quinn shifted uncomfortably under her looming figure. Control, that's what its about. "And what's that supposed to mean? Last time I checked, I was pretty human."

"Cut the crap. The only reason i'm even doing this is for Rachel, and the least you could do-"

"Aw, look at you, being Berry's little pet," Santana mocked in a high-pitched voice.

"-is to have at least an ounce of gratitude, because I can recall, Santana, that that's something you-"

"Were you expecting some gratitude of some sort? Because I might want to suggest that I have no wish whatsoever to be stuck here with the likes of you," Santana drawled out lazily, though deep down she was furious. Digging up the past was just stupid; pointless.

"have always lacked, ever since high school and you can go around with that little facade of yours but-"

"Are you finished? Because you're starting to sound finished and your voice makes me gag," Santana interjected, hoping she had willed in enough venom into her voice.

Quinn stared up at her Santana, and the latter could see something severe flare up beneath the stony, hazel eyes. "I'm done expecting anything from you, Santana. I think you've shown me that enough."

"Me? Disappointed you? HAH, that's bulllshit right there, Quinn," Santana barked humorlessly, baring her teeth into an accusatory snarl.

"Oh, really? Where were you, then? When I needed-" Quinn stopped abruptly. No, she wasn't going to dig things up just to prove a point. She had moved on; and she was continuing to do so despite whatever nuisance the girl in front of her wants to bring up.

"Cat got your tongue?" Santana hissed tauntingly through tense lips.

Quinn went silent, her eyes hard and cold as she bore into Santana's own brown ones. "I'm done with this," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Bed," she spared Santana a piercing stare.

"No, hold on," Santana protested indignantly, "You still haven't-"

"Get out. Now," Quinn mumbled from the bed, blinking away from the gaze. "I thought I made it quite clear."

"You can't tell me what to do, Quinn, in case you forgot, you're not captain of the Cheerios anymore," Santana sneered with hostility, edging closer. "Although, I still never understood why Sue took you back in. I mean, after shooting out Frankenteen's baby? Was your bottom half ever even coordinated after that painful process? Makes me wonder how you could pull off those backflips,-"

Something in her snapped; was it when Santana mentioned the baby, or Finn, she didn't know. She didn't care. She could feel her tenacity fighting to control her tongue, but there were limits and when pushed too far-

"I SAID," Quinn started, all calm demeanour lost as she threw any caution she had had left to wind. "GET OUT OF MY ROOM!" She was positively shaking, and it was a matter of seconds before she realised she had been digging her nails deep into the duvet; the loss of sensation had gone unnoticed in her fit of anger.

The delicious smugness that had settled on Santana's face disappeared, and Quinn almost saw a fleeting look of apology, but it was as if there was no such thing. She looked as impassive as ever, and she swiftly turned on her heels and headed out of Quinn's room. Quinn braced herself for the shrill bite of the blunt door, but it never came.

She was momentarily confused; wasn't this the perfect moment to slam the door and shove it up her face?

.

It was barely nine.

Who the heck sleeps at nine, on a holiday?

Quinn, obviously, had to do that. As if the day hadn't been dry enough on its own.

Santana swivelled around at the gentle thud of the door, followed by the sound of shuffling footsteps, and saw the light under the gap of Quinn's room go off. It was eerily silent, and Santana perked her ears up, in case Quinn had decided to break out into emotional sobs. A few minutes ticked past, and they never came. Quinn never had been the emotional type, and for that, Santana was eternally grateful. The last thing she needed was a guilty conscience; things were bad enough as they were.

Years of experience had taught her where to hit Quinn where it hurts, but commenting on her baby, however, was just cold. Even by her standards.

_No matter. _

She wasn't here to reconcile a failing friendship. She just needed a place to start out and get her fucking life back on track.


	4. Chapter 4

Let's Not Talk

_(four years ago)_

With only two hours left to the party, Quinn felt that it was perfectly justified for her to be annoyed at Santana. They were supposed to go to the party together; well, that's what she hoped. She had assumed it was a silent agreement, but now she couldn't help but doubt. Santana had given her a very unconvincing nod when she pestered her if she was going to the party, and after declining Finn's offer on the pretense that she was going with Santana, turning up at the party alone would be equivalent to a huge smack on his face.

She stood in front of her mirror, eyeing the blue dress with disdain. It wasn't ugly, not at all, but Quinn couldn't help but wonder when she had started to take all _these _so seriously. She had thought all the people in her grade were just so stupid, and she hated that notion that she was surrounded by idiots. It wasn't that she was a narcissist, but she wondered (with intense dislike) why they memorised social events, and spent so much effort in all the fleeting moments as if they'd matter someday.

She might as well be wearing a sign that flashes hypocrite, because after all she thought of them, she couldn't had helped but want to be like them, and what she had wanted, she had achieved. Here she was, all pretty and dolled-up, translating her attention from novels and books to magazines and celebrities, from libraries to celibacy club meetings and cheerleading practices. Its as unnatural as it is nice, and despite what she feels inside, its nice to stop feeling like a screw-up once in a while, like that one broken, bent, disfigured branch in an otherwise perfect family tree.

She stiffened, pulling her dress up higher.

_It's all about the teasing and not about the pleasing. _

It was the motto of the celibacy club her mother had forced her to join, and Quinn highly doubted that was the way to go. But she'll take all the advice she could get. '_Speak of the devil,' _Quinn thought, as her mother's voice rang loud and clear from the hallway.

"Quinn, honey, can I come in?"

Before she could even respond, the door was pushed open as Judy Fabray stepped in.

"You know, mom, there's really no point in asking if you're going to come in anyways."

"Oh, don't be such a fuss," her mother drawled carelessly, forcing out a humourless tinkle of laugh. "You're going out later aren't you? Have fun, dear, and don't indulge in anything stupid. There's always a few hooligans running around loose somewhere..." she paused, stilling the conversation to run her hands through the clothes in Quinn's cabinet. "You really need new clothes, dear, why don't you -"

"Mom."

It wasn't like her mother to willingly walk up a flight of stairs just to make small talk with her youngest daughter, and Quinn highly doubted her mother had taken a sudden interest in Quinn's activities -those that didn't involve bringing pride to the family at least- after so many years. Be that as it may, there had to be a catch if her mother was offering to buy her clothes, and Quinn hadn't even showed her the A+ she had gotten on her history report so that couldn't be the reason.

"Your sister...she's coming over in a few days, and she's bringing someone along, and he might be staying over, so we need you to be on your best behaviour."

"He who?"

"A boy Frannie has taken a liking to."

"Oh, wow, I could have guessed that much," Quinn muttered, earning a disapproving stare from her mother.

"It would be nice of you if you could be good," her mother repeated, with subtle force.

Quinn's temper flared slightly at this, because honestly, what could a teenager like herself could possibly do? The worst she could think of was to tell the supposed guest how much of a bitch Frannie had been and still was, but as of late, Quinn could wholeheartedly say that she had no interest whatsoever in her sister's business. She couldn't be bothered to meddle with affairs that weren't her own, and to do otherwise would be foolishness, especially in Frannie's case. Frannie was -and wasn't- many things, but being mean was certainly one of her specialities and Quinn didn't want to be at the receiving end of any of her outbursts.

"Yeah, sure," Quinn mumbled offhandedly, running her hand through her hair. She was more interested in receiving a reply from Santana than the conversation she was forced to partake in. Her mother smiled at her; that sickening smile that Quinn was so used to this year, and quickly made her way out.

The door closed gently, and as if on cue, there was a dull reverberating sound from the desk. Cursing at the late timing, and hoping it was Santana, Quinn crossed over to pick up the call.

It was Santana alright, but there was no reply when Quinn answered the call, save for a couple of noises that sounded uncannily like furniture being thrown around.

"Santana? What the heck is happening?"

"Oh, shit, wait, fuck-"

She heard panting, some muffled curses and a whole string of spanish expletives before she was greeted by a much different salutation.

"Hey, Quinn!"

"Where are you? Santana, what just happened?"

"Oh, that."

Quinn waited for a few moments before she realised she wasn't going to get a legitimate explanation for the prior incident. "Well?!"

"We're redecorating, and I sort of fell over some furniture," Santana mumbled, dismissing the question quickly before rambling on. "Listen, Q-"

"No, stop talking." Quinn interrupted. This was no time to have a chat over the phone and both of them knew it.

Santana stopped short, "Did you just ask me to stop talking?" she asked dumbly.

"Just tell me, what time are you going for the party," Quinn asked, as calmly as she could. Commotion and babbling was never her forte, and she was beginning to get too tired to think.

"Yeah...about that," Santana started, chucking guiltily. "I was actually getting ready, but then I sat down. Gravity works very well on me, you should know that, Quinn, especially when it's sweltering outside and Ryan Gosling is on television."

It took a while for Quinn to process the information. Did her ears deceive her, or was Santana actually missing Puck's party...to watch a movie.

"Are you kidding me?"

Santana laughed tentatively, sensing the blonde's incredulousness and possible vexation over the phone. "Okay, i'll still be coming, but I might be a bit late. No, shush, shut up for a minute-" she quickly exclaimed when Quinn started to speak, the raised decibels harassing her own ears. "I'll be there, okay? You go first, i'll catch up soon."

Quinn was about to launch into a defensive argument when there was a loud beep. _Did she just hang up on her?_

_Ugh._

Thoroughly disgruntled, she decided to head over alone to the party. It wasn't like Santana to brush off a party just to watch a movie, but lately Santana wasn't acting herself at all. Quinn needed reasonable excuses, and there was nothing she called more bullshit on than Santana's stupid 'redecorating' excuse.

It was stupid, because neither of them believed it.

* * *

><p>"Fuck this...you better be home when I get back."<p>

The gruff voice was more than enough to send chills up her spine, but even if it did, she didn't show it. Her senses were tingling.

Crouched behind the sofa, the sound of her own breathing seemed far too loud for her liking. She heard the tinkling of keys, followed by the shuffling of feet and slamming of the door. Pin-drop silence ensued.

Thanking her lucky stars, Santana slowly stood up, making sure her father was truly out of earshot before striding over to the broken vase. She sighed at the mess in front of her; tiny, glittery pieces of glass and grit twinkled from the dark carpet, while the bigger shards lay poised and dangerous. But as she maneuvered daintily around visible shards of china, trying to salvage the big pieces, she wondered what there was to be thankful for.

She paused for a minute, wondering how to clean the mess. Sweeping it seemed to be the quickest option, and she needed to get this over with fast if she was to meet Quinn on time; well, as early as she could. She was late anyways. The sky was dimming rapidly outside, and she also needed to be back home before _him._

Maybe if she had turned on the ceiling lights, she would have avoided it, but before it was possible, there was a tiny crunch of breaking china underfoot.

"What the-"

She stared down at her foot, making out shady silhouettes.

She was bleeding. _Seriously? _

Hopping on her right foot and swearing (compulsively) under her breath, she shouldered against the wall. She had trodden, ever so intelligently, on a rather large shard. It was broken now, with the miniscule pieces still clinging onto her foot.

_What lucky stars was she even talking about?_

Hissing out a few choice swear words, she scraped the larger fragments together with both hands and threw them into the already crammed bin just visible behind the door. She tried to brush off as many pieces as she could off her hands and into the bin, before tramping across to the bathroom to run her foot under the tap.

It was stupid, pointless, and irritating beyond belief; that of all the things her father could have thrown in a fit of anger, it had to be the fucking vase. The cold water was therapeutic, but she was still fuming as she returned to the mess with a large wad of tissue paper and a dustpan. Maybe she wouldn't be this pissed if she knew her father was just a complete asshole, because it was certainly easier to face than the fact that he was an alcoholic with the sensitivity and self-control of a wart.

The small wound was clotting up, and Santana was too lazy to put a plaster on it. There was no point, and it served as a good enough reason to wear flip-flops to the party - to which she was forty minutes late and still counting. There was no time to dawdle, and within the next few minutes, she had put on a tank top, khaki shorts, run a comb through her hair twice and was on her way to Puck's house.

It didn't take a genius to find out which house on the street was hosting a party for high, hormonal teenagers; someone was blasting Skrillex and on one of the ceiling fans hung a mock disco ball made of coloured plastics. Santana grinned as she entered his house. It felt good to be free, even if it was at the risk of old ladies next door calling the cops on the pretense of public nuisance.

She trudged past the crowd in search of Quinn, finding her moments later in the living room. Santana almost laughed out loud; Quinn was outwardly squirming under the gaze of Jacob Ben Israel. She couldn't imagine, for the life of her, why he of all people were invited to the party, but it was a good bet to say that being the school's gossip source had its perks.

"Hey asshole, what shoe size does your face take?" Santana called out, walking up to Quinn, who had begun to move back to buffer the distance between herself and Jacob.

The curly haired boy swivelled around, breaking into a gangly smile at Santana. The video camera in his hand travelling down to her cleavage, as did his eyes. Santana couldn't help but to roll her eyes. Before he could ask her anything, she pushed the camera away with her hands. "Get lost, asshat. Go stare at someone else's boobs, though I doubt they're as striking as mine."

She stared at his whimpering, retreating figure until he had disappeared off after one of the seniors.

"Well, aren't you early."

Santana pulled back to look at Quinn with one of her smirks. "You know, considering how I saved you from horny Jewfro over here, a simple 'thanks' would suffice."

"I had it under control," Quinn protested immediately, only to earn another smug grin from Santana. "But now that you're here, care to tell me why you're late?"

"Fashionably so, I should think."

"No, not really," she replied thoughtfully, before shaking her head. "Don't change the topic, San, what happened?"

Santana got a serious look on her face, her eyes darting around cautiously before she leaned it. "Do you have ears, Quinn?"

"What? Um, yes?" Quinn muttered, confused at the absurdity of her question.

"Then you should have heard me when I said I was too busy keeping my eyes glued to a Canadian hottie at home?" Santana said, mocking Quinn's voice.

The blonde huffed, looking crossed. "Oh, don't give me that crap. Do you know how aggravating you are sometimes?" she questioned pertly.

"Really, geez, why don't you believe me?" Santana muttered, trying to look as innocent as possible. It wasn't the easiest thing to do, especially not when she was holding down a grimace from the cut on her foot.

Quinn brought Santana's gaze to her own, opening her mouth to speak. She changed her mind halfway in the process, opting to give Santana a suspicious look. "Why are you making that face?"

"Huh? What face?"

"That face. Like you need to shit."

"Oh," she shrugged sheepishly, "Maybe I do."

Quinn squinted at her; who didn't know when they had to attend nature's calling?

"Toilet's on the left," she muttered, tilting her head to the kitchen.

"Great," she grinned, "I'll be back soon."

She impassively watched as Santana pushed past several sweaty teenagers.

* * *

><p>"So, guess who decided to finally show up."<p>

_Not again._

Santana tilted her head at the accusatory tone, turning around to face Quinn. "Hey."

"Hey? HEY?! That's all you're going to say? Aren't you going to tell me why?" Quinn asked. She was pissed, and she was having none of Santana's conversational gambit.

"Why what?"

Pretending to be dumb seemed to be the most likely escape route for now.

"For starters, where were you for the past four days? You missed the performance?! And why did you ignore all my texts? And what the heck happened to your eye?"

"If I answer, will you stop shouting into my face?" Santana asked, putting her hands up to buffer the distance; Quinn seemed to loom over her with each impending question.

"I'll take that as a yes then," she muttered, noticing the blonde's glare. "My phone screen cracked, so it didn't work for a couple of days, and it wasn't like I wanted to miss the performance, okay? I had to go visit my grandmother and stay with her."

It wasn't a _complete_ lie - her phone screen really had cracked. Because her father had thrown it in his rage, but that wasn't necessary.

"Sounds highly unlikely, but how about your eye then? Did you trip and fall and somehow miraculously ended up with a black-eye?," Quinn asked, sarcasm kicking in at the second question. It wasn't that she didn't believe Santana's story -it was possible, considering how Quinn had no clue about Santana's grandmother's life- but for her to miss a performance that she couldn't stop harping on about, and to simply dismiss the fact that her prized possession had been damaged; it was anomalous, more so unnerving.

"I knocked into a shelf, and of course, considering my luck, a fucking book had to fall flat on my face," Santana fumed, hoping deep down that there was enough anger in her statement to convince Quinn.

She just stared at Santana incredulously. "Are you lying, or were you actually that stupid?"

"Don't push it, blondie," she shot back, reigning in some of that familiar cockiness.

"So, you're telling me, none of it was intentional?" Quinn questioned, and Santana could swear she could almost hear the gears clicking into place in Quinn's brain.

"Nope."

Santana figured that the less she opened her mouth, the less the chances of her giving something away. Quinn wasn't dumb.

"Okay," Quinn breathed, pursing her lips in that trademark-Fabray way, "Whatever." There was a slight pause, and then, in a single breath, "Listen, I don't know what's happening and I certainly don't know if what you're saying is true, but if you ever need to...you know, talk, or something, i'm, well, i'm here."

Santana raised her brow, amused, at the change in demeanor, but only momentarily before she realised how much it stung to do anything related to her brows.

_Damn her father_.

"Aww, look at you, being all sweet and concerned," Santana smirked.

The tentative look on Quinn's face vanished, her lips forming a thin line as she glared at Santana. "Don't ruin the moment, San."

"As much as your sappiness provokes me, Q, thanks. I'll keep that in mind," she grinned back, clearly entertained at the blonde's expense.

"Asshole," Quinn mouthed, a smile creeping into her face as she turned on her heels, glancing back at Santana before making her way to the next lesson.

* * *

><p>It wasn't a daily ordeal that Santana underwent. She had heard of more devastating cases, and she supposed that she had to be relieved that her dad at least wasn't sexually abusing her. She wasn't even sure if this was considered child abuse anymore; didn't it have to be more of a daily thing? He would apologise the very next day, blaming it on his insecurities and anger at himself for not being a proper father, and no matter how apologetic he sounded by the day, it was getting exhausting. She wasn't accepting of his 'sorry's, but there wasn't anything else she could do.<p>

At the moment, she was more concerned if Quinn had seen through her lie. She had spent a good part of her time between lessons dodging anyone with blonde hair, but it was only a matter of time before Quinn caught up with her in the toilet.

"Why do I get the feeling that you're avoiding me?"

Santana stiffened, but continued washing her hands, refusing to turn around to acknowledge the other occupant in the toilet. She could hear the footsteps drawing closer, and a small gasp.

"What happened to your face?"

Considering how she had had a similar injury on the very same cheek years ago, Quinn was aware of how much it stung, and the fact that Santana was refusing to speak to her was not helping her growing concern. She stared at Santana, who unflinchingly proceeded to leave the toilet.

"Are you seriously doing this? Giving me the silent treatment?" Quinn asked sharply, exasperated. If this was Santana being on her period again, she'd be more than just pissed.

"I'm sort of in a hurry," Santana muttered, her hand on the steel handle.

"Bullshit," Quinn hissed, brows furrowed. "You didn't seem to be in a hurry when you just spent ages washing your hands."

"What the fuck do you want, Q?"

"I want to know what's wrong with you! What happened to your face?"

"Yeah, real tactful," Santana scowled, her fingers wrapping around the handle. If that wasn't an obvious enough indication that she did not want to continue with the conversation, she did not know what was.

"Seriously, what happened?" Quinn asked, her features set on the most serious expression she could muster.

"I was walking, and slipped in the rain and fell...again."

"What rain? We live in the same neighbourhood, Santana, i'm pretty sure there was no rain!"

"I fell, okay? Its embarrassing!" Santana whispered angrily, walking back to the cubicles to check that they were empty. If there was a moment when eavesdroppers could not have been more unwelcome, it would be there and then, she thought.

"So why were you avoiding me then?"

"I wasn't, I had to meet teachers in between periods so I couldn't see you," Santana replied, exasperated.

"Do I, by any chance, look stupid to you?"

"No, you just look too fucking annoying right now," she grimaced.

"Then what about-"

Santana sighed. There it was again; Quinn with all her questions.

"Just stop, will you? I'll be late, and i'm sure you have somewhere else to be as well."

Quinn opened her mouth, ready to argue all over again, but thought against it. It wasn't getting them - her - anywhere anytime soon.

The door slammed hard as Santana left.

* * *

><p>The past sure had a very twisted way of repeating itself, and here she was, back at <em>Quinn's<em> place, back for _Quinn's_ help.

Who the fuck were they to stage an intervention? They, implying, Rachel and Kurt of course. Santana knew they were trying to help, because that's what friends do, and it just made her more angry; the fact that her being pissed off at the pair wasn't even justified was annoying enough.

That, coupled with the fact that she had, yet again, woken up too late for Quinn, made her itch with rage. It had been two days since their little feud, and both had made a conscious (and a rather obvious one at that) to keep out of each other's way, Quinn more so. The other occupant in the dreary apartment had decided to stay clear of her, waking up too early and coming back home too late. She didn't mind this arrangement at all, but there was only so much time she could spend on her phone, and she needed to go out. She needed to move about, find a part-time job hopefully and move out of this shit-ass place before Quinn kicked her out, and the only time she could leave was along with Quinn, since the latter had yet to give her the keys.

Her eyes settled on the clock, and she released an agitated sigh. It was going to be three soon. Only a few more hours till Quinn comes back, she thought, as she wandered into the kitchenette and poured herself some milk. The fridge was depressingly void of anything tasty, and she hoped Quinn would go grocery shopping soon, unless Quinn was still following Sue's stupid maple syrup diet...

She smiled sardonically to herself; Quinn's relationship to food was far from normal, but then again, so had hers been when she was a Cheerio. With the glass in hand, she refreshed the tab on her phone with the other, for what seemed like the millionth time, and instead opted to text Rachel. After all, it was her fault she was stuck in this hellhole.

She had to send a rapid string of seventeen sad faces before she received a call in response.

"What do you want? My phone's been buzzing for five minutes straight!" Rachel squeaked the moment Santana answered the call. The latter winced at the shrill volume, before muttering dryly. "Hello to you too, hobbit."

"Well, what?"

"Don't what me! I'm stuck here, with no freedom, and no company and you have the balls to ask me what?" Santana hissed, walking over to glance out the window. There wasn't much to see, just buildings and more buildings. It was New York, after all.

"Don't exaggerate, Santana," Rachel huffed, and even from her voice alone, Santana could picture the massic eye roll Rachel was giving her.

"Ugh, stop talking. You're grossing me," Santana shot back. There was silence for a moment, as she heard Rachel release a long breath over the phone. She only realised how eerily quiet it was then, and the silence buzzed in her ears. She crossed the threshold, walking over to blast some music from the radio. A few more hours of agonizing silence and she might as well go crazy.

"You know, if you just tried to get along with Qui-"

"Who said I didn't try?" Santana interjected indignantly. Rachel had no right blaming her for all this mess.

"Um, Quinn. Well, she didn't say you didn't try...I just heard there was some commotion going on after we left," she replied meekly.

"Oh, so you've been talking to Quinn, now, huh?" Santana asked snidely, the intended content of Rachel's message falling on deaf ears. This new relationship between Quinn and Rachel, that she was slowly beginning to unravel, was unnerving. It was quite possibly the most unlikeliest, maybe other than Santana herself and possibly Jacob Ben Israel.

She had to suppress a shudder at the thought of Jewfro.

"Unless you've been non-existent for the past few days, yes, I have been talking to Quinn. How else do you think I got her to take you in?" Rachel answered crisply, unable to help keep the haughtiness out of her voice.

"And anyways, we've been friends for a long time, Santana, i'm surprised you didn't realise that," she continued, ignoring Santana's little sarcastic hiss with ease. "After the whole Beth incident, she came over to stay at my house remember?"

"Yes, I do remember," Santana mumbled through clenched teeth. There was a pang of unwelcome nostalgia there...(and was it jealousy?) but she quickly waved it away.

"Try to be good, Santana, she's-"

"What do you mean, be good?!" she shrieked. Her temper flared at this; she wasn't some naughty kid holding a grudge. She was just being even with the blonde.

"-just trying to help you out," Rachel supplied, and before Santana could get another word out, she pushed on. "Listen, I need to go, but i'll call you later if I can. Bye!"

The dial tone beeped loudly in her ears, and Santana punched down the button to end the call.

_Ugh, it wasn't like she WANTED her help._

* * *

><p>Quinn had considered returning to the campus library, but despite the allure of the books and the familiarity of the place, the two hour journey just to get there was such a huge turn-off. Having spent most of her morning at the cafe with her laptop, she had left, rather unwilling, but only because there was only this amount of time she could pretend to sip coffee from an empty mug.<p>

Quinn scooped up her purse and phone and made her way out of the small cafe. As she passed the counter, she sniffed slightly; the smell of burned coffee and old wood was overpowering. A reminder that she needed to stock up on her caffeine at home, especially since there was an extra mouth to feed. She wondered briefly why she was even bothering with Santana's dietary needs, but being a host had its obligations, however unwilling she was to carry them out.

The thought of Santana waiting at home and the possibility of another impending argument was the highest of Quinn's concerns. Her brow creased slightly with worry at the thought, but she was soon pulled back to the present. No sooner had she left the cafe, she heard someone call out to her.

"Hey! Quinn!"

Quinn turned around abruptly at her name, only to find her classmate, Biff, making his way to her with a wave. It was easy to spot him, given his astonishingly tall frame.

"Oh, hi," she smiled warmly, breaking out into a huge smile to make up for the slight frown she had put on moments ago.

She liked Biff. Not romantically, but he had been a gentleman most of the time. She had been partners with him for a couple of projects and had even gone over to his house near college. Suffice to say, his mother made the best bacon sandwiches she had ever eaten. It boosted their friendship greatly, so to speak.

"Hey," he grinned. "How's summer break?"

Quinn cringed. "Boring. But as long as I don't see Mrs Hagberg anytime soon, i'm fine," she muttered, earning a chuckle from him.

"Anyway," he went on, hefting his backpack higher on his shoulder. "Are you going home, or anything? I could give you a ride if you want."

"No, its fine. I was just...walking around," Quinn smiled, mentally slapping herself as she hoped it didn't come out as lamely as it had sounded in her head.

"Can I offer you company then?" he offered earnestly, "I was just helping my dad out at the hospital with some paperwork," he continued. "It'll be nice to have someone around to talk to...the walls don't really respond when I initiate a conversation."

Quinn looked at him blankly and then remembered: His dad was a doctor. But that aside, she wasn't too sure if she should be going. Not sure at all, in fact. It had been two days since she had maintained contact with her house guest, and she should be worried. But on the other hand, she didn't want to go home early just to end up going to bed furious and disappointed. She fiddled with her hem of her jacket, until she realised that maybe she had been quiet for far too long.

"Its okay if you made plans," he added quickly, mock-cheerily in a way that made Quinn cringe in regret. Going back to _her _was certainly not in her agenda anytime soon.

Quinn moulded her face into a bold smile, "Its fine. Let's go."

Contrary to expectations, and to their immense guilt, they ended up spending the next few hours chatting and eventually making paper boats with the spare bits of paper from the leftover pile of discarded printing paper. With an experience like this, Quinn thought she wouldn't mind getting an internship doing 'admin work'.

"You know, I really don't think your dad will be happy about this," she said slowly, her sides still aching from a laughing fit.

"Heck, no, he won't," Biff observed in tandem, his smile still in place. "But don't worry, its not like I actually do work when i'm here alone," he smirked at Quinn.

"Do you help out here often?" she asked, her voice dropping to a low whisper when the receptionist came over with a calculating glare. Biff, who had been about to reply her, shot the lady an apologetic smile, and without a muscle, he mumbled quietly. "I think we should clean up."

"You don't say," Quinn teased, but dropped on all fours, crawling around to pick up all the pieces of paper.

"And yeah, my dad makes me come here if he thinks i'm too lazy at home," he continued, bending over to pick up an exceptionally tricky boat that had lodged itself into the nook of the couch. "I don't mind becoming a doctor though, so no complaints."

"I had a friend, who's doctor was a dad too," Quinn blurted out, before wondering how that was the slightest bit significant. She had no clue how that contributed to their conversation but fortunately, Biff took no notice of her uncomfortableness.

"Cool, but what's with the past tense?" he questioned, his voice muffled from trying to stretch out to reach the piece of paper.

"Oh, nothing," she digressed sheepishly. "She's living with me, actually." At this point, she glanced down at the time displayed on her phone.

_5.38pm _

Maybe she should head home, just in case Santana was up to something.

"I think I might need to leave soon," she started, crumpling up the last of the paper boats, before chucking the pile into the metallic dustbin at the corner.

"That's okay, we got this mess cleaned up. See ya around, and tell your friend I said hi!" he said cheerfully, and despite her refusals, he walked her to the door.

"Thanks for today, Biff," Quinn sent a delicate wave in his direction, before heading on home.


	5. Chapter 5

Salt On Papercuts

She pushed open the door gently, and the darkness that welcomed her was unexpected. It took her a couple of seconds to adjust to the dim light emitting from the corner of a room, and she groped around for the light switch. Be it concern or just cautiousness, her eyes immediately search for Santana, who seemed to be nowhere in the house.

Though her first thoughts were that of Santana escaping out the window like Rapunzel, Quinn merely took a deep breath, caressing the necklace she always wore. It had never been separated from her since young, and it had become a habit of hers to touch it every now and then. More so for reassurance than for fear of losing it.

The light coming from the gap under the bathroom door was indication enough that her guest was still alive, and more importantly, in the house. The trickling sounds of water was too loud for her, and she huffed in irritation. If her water bills, or anything, was even a little higher than usual, someone was going to be held responsible and it most certainly wasn't going to be her.

There was a buzz from the far corner of the room, and Quinn turned to locate the source of noise. It wasn't her phone, so surely it belonged to the soul hogging the bathroom. She pursed her lips; to pry, or not to pry?

Santana still refused to tell her the reason for her impromptu stay, and despite her word, Rachel had said that it was too personal for her disclose. Her lips parted in irritated confusion. _It wouldn't hurt to take a look..._

She glanced back at the bathroom door; still safely closed. Hopefully it will be for five more minutes. The thought of an angry Santana bursting out at her, or worse, a naked one at that, bursting out at her, was frankly, terrifying. Though it wasn't like Quinn hadn't seen it all; cramped cubicles at school meant that they had had to share if they were to make it in time for Cheerios practice. It was either to shower together, or to run an extra couple of laps and that was incentive enough.

She delicately picked up the phone, turning it over in her hands clumsily. It was the same model as hers. Funny, she knew for a fact that Santana had been an avid Apple user. The screen lit up, and Quinn wasn't sure what she had expected, but her face fell nonetheless at the request for the passcode that popped up. There wasn't enough time for her to truly display her disappointment when she heard the twist of the handle and a subsequent faint click.

She ought to be congratulated, Quinn thought, as she tossed the phone back in place _just _in time for Santana to walk out. Quinn stood, poised and still at the corner, as Santana made her way out - she hadn't seen the blonde yet, thankfully.

Wondering why on earth she was actually standing still and quiet in her own house, she shifted slightly. No response. She frowned, before trying again. "What are you doing?" she asked sharply, watching as Santana flinched abruptly.

"Shit, Quinn!" She snapped her head up to look at her, her eyes wide and furious.

Oh, how she missed that fiery anger.

"What does it look like i'm doing?" she snapped back, before muttering to herself, "and you're the one in Yale."

"I heard that," Quinn scowled.

"You were meant to," Santana riposted, her brown eyes flicking towards Quinn as she flipped her wet hair up in an arc. "What are you doing here?"

Quinn shifted the weight between her feet uncomfortably before regarding her with irritated impatience. "I live here," she hissed, "In case you haven't noticed."

"Seeing how you're barely home for the past few days, I would have begged to differ," she shrugged flippantly, making her way over to grab her phone. Quinn took small steps back as she came nearer, earning a gleeful smirk from Santana. "I don't bite, Quinn," she said, with a questioning raise of her brow. "Where were you, anyways?"

"As if I would tell you," Quinn scoffed, crossing over to dump her heavy bag on the coffee table. "Unless you have a purpose, just go-"

"Go where, Quinn? Tell me exactly," Santana countered, rounding on Quinn as she folded her arms. Quinn could see the muscles fluctuate beneath the grey tank top, and wondered briefly if that was the result of the cheerleading scholarship.

"I honestly don't give a shit," she answered crisply, fishing her phone out of her bag.

"Are you really that stupid, or have you not noticed that I can't fucking leave this place without your damn keys!" she yelled, sending Quinn a piercing gaze. "I just need to borrow your keys, Quinn," she repeated, slower and softer.

"For the last time, Santana, no." Quinn honestly had no obligations as to why she couldn't hand over her keys to Santana, but this was a matter of pride. It was at stake, and it was in a Fabray to defend it with all means, even if it just encompasses little metal keys.

"You have to have spare keys, don't you? Just give those to me! I don't see why not, since you get to come and go-"

"This is my house," Quinn interrupted calmly, " You're here because you need help, and in case you-"

"I didn't want your fucking help!" Santana spat scathingly, her fists balled in defiance. "Rachel-"

"Was being helpful, and even if you didn't want it, you've got it now, so stop being such an ignoramus and get on with it!" Quinn finished for her, the decibels rising significantly.

Santana breathed out slowly in an effort to calm down, turning her gaze to Quinn. Going all out Lima Heights now was out of question. It irritated her so much, and confused her too, as to why Quinn refused to give her spare keys. They were spare, for fuck's sake. It was infuriating to her almost as it surprised Quinn how much intensity Santana could apply in a gaze when required.

There was an uncomfortable pause, as Quinn waited for her to lash out, throw out a particularly vindictive comment about her disheveled appearance, something at least. But it never came. Santana just stood there, oblivious to the drops of water sliding down her toned legs into the carpet as she stared at her strangely. It felt like she wasn't looking at Quinn as a person - more like a math question that needed solving. And a very tedious one at that.

"Fine, keep your keys. You'll need them, when you want to go out and get knocked up by hobos on the street -oh wait!" Santana exclaimed quietly, saccharine sarcasm dripping from her voice. "How's professor patches going for you? I mean, other than the fact that you obviously like to invite men into your screwed up life, is he still digging the old teenage mom look? Does he think you have more experience, Q, because i'm sure you're just as bad in bed as you are a friend."

Her words were like salt on a paper cut.

"Shut up," Quinn sputtered, but drew in her mortification real quick. Reigning in her impulses, she spat, "You have no right! And don't talk about being a friend, Santana, because as far as i'm concerned, i'm the one helping you!"

"Don't patronise me, Quinn," Santana rolled her eyes. "You're only doing this because Rachel-"

"Are you kidding me? Wouldn't I have kicked you out then? Wouldn't I have thrown all your shit out the moment they left? Try to have some sense! Just because you left me all alone doesn't mean i'll do the same, and I have the basic decency which you seem to lack!"

Santana lowered her brow, frowning. "I left you alone? When-"

"Get out of here if you want to leave so badly. Its not like you have no bloody legs!" Quinn went on.

""No! I'm serious, what do you mean I left-" Santana insisted, intrigued. Curse her curiosity for shrouding her common sense, but this was turning out strange.

"You know exactly what I mean! And never have I once mentioned your dad, but every single time you open your damn mouth its about my baby! Its been three years, is that so hard to let go? I was sixteen, it was a mistake! Letting Finn stick his dick inside me was a bloody mistake, I get it! But do you have to serve as a constant reminder? The fact that I had an abortion is painful enough, and then now there's you! Do you have any idea how guilty I feel? To this day?"

Breathing heavily, Quinn snapped her fire-gold eyes at Santana, vibrating with inhibited anger. Her glare flickered the glaze of burning tears, but she blinked them away before the latter could notice.

"And since you love talking about my baby so much, where were you when I was pregnant? Oh, wait, you were too busy fucking Brittany! When I was in a wheelchair? Brittany again. Maybe it didn't occur to you, Santana, but I was alone for so long and you, _you_ have the audacity to tell me I was a bad friend?"

She paused, blinking furiously. Her voice sounded surprisingly calm and even to her own ears, but her gaze had left Santana's face long ago, with her now holding a steadfast glare at the fifth tile from the right on the wall behind Santana.

Maybe it was because she had never really seen Quinn get so enraged, or maybe because she had never heard her side of the story, but Santana was, in all aspects, dumbfounded. Angry, yes, wounded, yes, but there was something else in that concoction of emotions she was feeling, and she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"Remember when Rachel said all you were suited for was a freaking pole? I defended you, didn't I? Guess what, seeing how you're here, helpless and in my house in the middle of the holidays, i'm not sure if I was right in doing that," Quinn murmured, more to herself. Her eyes didn't quite reflect the venom in the words, but they stung. There was a flash of hurt across Santana's face, but she wasn't going to give the blonde the pleasure.

Her jaws clenched involuntarily. She had deemed herself as a failure the moment she had been expelled from the University of Illinois, but for it to come from someone else's mouth; it just made it ten times more painful; more harsh.

"You want to know why i'm here? Well, fine. I lost my scholarship, okay? I took too many days off, and they thought I wasn't good enough! And I can't go back home to face my parents with the fact that I disappointed them in every way possible. I don't know about you, Quinn, but I won't be able to take it if they kick me out! And i've nothing and nowhere to go, so yes, I ended up here, to your great fucking misfortune." Her voice broke on the second last word, the entrails of that single syllable curling into silence; shivering and wan.

* * *

><p>Back in her room, Quinn slumped against the wall, releasing a choked sob.<p>

Truth was, she didn't really know why she was crying. Maybe she was too angry, too hurt, the memories, or maybe she was just feeling bad for Santana - which, if was the case, then she shouldn't be feeling that way. _She_ was the whole reason she was in this mess anyways.

It wasn't hard to remember the times when she and Santana had been at their closest; all the way from the age of nine to sophomore year, when they had formed an unspoken bond over the mutual goal of being the perfect girl. Constantly trying to help the other with forsaken gameplay had been the norm in their relationship, meant that they knew each other inside out. But no matter what, she had always been the girl Quinn had returned to, and would always want to come back to. They had depended on each other, more so Quinn than Santana, now that she thought about it.

Cheerios camp - sophomore year

_They were sitting on the track along the field, bathing in the comfortable silence as they gazed up at the night sky. Sweet-smelling rain-washed darkness hung around them, as Quinn quietly wondered what time it was. It looked like midnight, but it could have been one, or two - time was an irrelevant mumbled mess of forgotten hours when she was with Santana. _

"_Do you think Sue will find us sneaking out this late?" _

"_Nope, she insists on her uninterrupted beauty sleep and I doubt she'd care. You need to learn to stop worrying, Q."_

_She knew she did. She'd been told that often enough. _

_She sighed, sinking backwards as she lay on her back. She shuddered at the frigid air and cold surface of the track sinking to her bones like wet concrete. _

_But it was okay. Santana was there. _

_Quinn looked straight ahead, absorbing the enormity of the vast outer space. The star-freckled sky was breathtaking and even the smudgy illuminations of McKinley High's old crumbling blocks could do nothing to mar the beauty. _

_The rest of the cheerios were sleeping at the gym, but Santana had insisted that they come stargazing - in the middle of the night, mind you - and she wasn't complaining. _

_Santana followed her, laying with her back against the cold track as her hair spread beneath her head, strands mixing with blonde ones. There was a slight hiss at the feel of the biting cold, and as if on reflex, she pulled Quinn closer to her, her warmth enough for the both of them. It was intimate in a way its never been, but its okay. Its always been like these; their little moments that were silent with the weight of feelings between them. Quinn felt perfect, Santana was perfect, the night was perfect, and when she realises its just the two of them alone; its still very much perfect. _

"_Promise me you won't leave."_

"_Leave where?" Santana asked, almost vacuously. _

"_Anywhere."_

"_I won't." She clenched Quinn's numb fingers protectively, rubbing them. _

_Quinn smiled. She liked this little tradition of theirs - sneaking out together. _

_It felt good. _

* * *

><p>Until of course, the Unholy Trinity had formed.<p>

A friendship formed out of convenience, as she so often reminded herself.

Whereby Brittany had casually skipped into their lives on her mythical unicorn and swept Santana off her feet, riding the damned horse to places only she could come up with. It had been so quick, and Quinn soon found out for herself that she'd been left behind. It was agonizing, because Santana was so willing to be open with Brittany in ways that she never was with Quinn; because before everyone regarded Brittany and Santana as two halves of the perfect circle, it had been Quinn instead of the other blonde.

She had gone all in with the promise of a friendship that lasted _forever_ (in the words of her eleven year old self), and the fact that that very same _forever_ had been severed by someone else - who wasn't Quinn - got to her. The quirky smiles, seducing glares, the holding of hands that had all been reserved for Quinn and only Quinn had become Brittany's to experience. It didn't take her long to know that; that one moment of uncertainty that had been exchanged between the two when Quinn had cried during Nationals in New York, where she had told them how she wished somebody would love them - even through the haze of hurt and tears she had seen them look at each other momentarily and she knew that _she _was completely alone then.

After that, all she and Santana had left to share were regretful glances and plastic smiles, but after today, maybe it would just more harsh insults and scathing words.

So yes, how was she supposed to go back to the very same person, much less hold a proper conversation, who had abandoned her when she needed someone the most? How was she supposed to go back when the last thing they did was slap each other? She still remembered; even with dimples poking through her cheeks and eyes crinkled in mild amusement, the plastic smile etched on her face as Santana leaned over the piano was as cold as could be, and the beauty that she portrayed died off with the disgust in her eyes. With Quinn, its this, but with Brittany, its love and fluff and besotted smiles.

Where was Santana when she was going through her pregnancy turmoil? Where was she when Quinn found out her father had been cheating on her mother? Where the _fuck_ was she when she was all alone in a hospital bed, surrounded by the cold beeping of machines and tubes up her veins?

Crass movements from the other side of the door pulled her back to the present situation, and Quinn couldn't help but wonder where Brittany was. She wasn't the most educated on her friends' lives these days; the glee kids had separated into three demographics; those in New York; Rachel, Kurt, Puck, herself, and now, Santana, those in Lima; Tina, Artie, Sam, Blaine, and Mercedes who was on at Boston currently, on her tour. Quinn mentally categorized the remaining two dancers as unknown; she had no idea where Mike and Brittany, but a part of her wondered if Mike was back tracing his asian roots.

The last time she had checked, she had been prancing around the school with Santana in tow, and seeing the latter here, all alone, was a huge surprise. The fact that Santana had been kicked out was also a piece of information she had not been expecting. If anything, she had been sure that girl was going to do really well there. Quinn had expected her _friend _to be hiding behind that quasi-celebrity status of hers in Kentucky, with a form-fitting skirt and poms, stunning in ways that the Cheerios outfit would never have allowed. But despite it all, she knew Santana didn't want that. She needed a stage to shine and an audience to hear her, because no matter how much Quinn might deny it if she ever said it out loud, Santana had the voice and the potential. But no, she had given up the chance to shine just so that she could be near the girl she loved.

For the very same girl, who's too afraid to do anything other than wave poms poms into the faces of hollering red-faced coaches and shake her ass in those mini-skirts, to tell Quinn that she made a mistake in her life was far from right. For the very same girl, who so easily forgot their friendship to link pinkies in hallways with Brittany, to tell Quinn what to and what not to do was, quite fairly, hypocritical.

She straightened up, and a glance at the clock told her she had been back for about an hour, and she had yet to change out of her clothes. Sighing deeply, she grabbed clothes at random and stool still against the door; in case Santana had decided to use the bathroom. No sounds of water, no doors being unlocked - all was fine.

She crept out of her room, and without even a look around the living room, she made her way to the bathroom at the far end. She could feel a pair of eyes trained on her as she stepped gingerly onto the wet tiled floor of the quaint bathroom, and she caught a fleeting glance of Santana through the gap before she closed it with a soft thud. Subconsciously, she loosened the tight grip she never realised she was holding on her clothes.

The gush of warm water hit her naked torso, dripping down her side as it washed away the remnants of the sweat and traces of the exhausting journey. The sensation of steam invading her senses was calming, but not enough to get her to forget about the person on the other side of the door.

* * *

><p>She had never seen Quinn furious before. Petty bickering? Check. Glaring and scowling? Check. Vindictive? Check,, but never indulging in a full-blown outburst. She supposed she should've been proud that she managed to penetrate that acquiescent facade of hers, but she was neither remotely happy about it nor did she want to entertain any thoughts pertaining to penetrating the blonde at the moment.<p>

Santana glared at the bathroom that just closed moments ago. Not that it helped her growing confusion and unease. Confused, because she was angry that Quinn had to dig up the past, hurt, that her failure had been repeatedly shoved in her face (as if she wasn't disappointed enough as it is), and most of all, baffled that Quinn's version of all that happened during high school seemed to mock the very notion that she had believed and even built the past few years around.

Was it not justified that she be hurt when Quinn left her for that meathead, Finn Hudson? Other than the fact that he got nothing on herself or Quinn in terms of appearance, there were so many more reasons she could name as to why he was just so wrong for Quinn. If Quinn wanted to kill whatever ambitions she had and stay in Lima cleaning up after that oaf, yeah sure, but she knew that wasn't what Quinn had planned for.

But all bad things in Lima were eventually gently nudged out of sight, and Quinn's pregnancy had been no exception. So why was it that Santana couldn't seem to let it go? Sometimes she couldn't help but wonder if it was because it wasn't _her_, but Finn. That _she _wasn't the one who had been the first to explore her body and share the first romantic moments. More often than not, she'd shake it off but the more she dwelled on it, the more she wondered if it was true.

To a teenage closeted lesbian, still painfully not self-aware, the future stared her right in the eye with the flowery promise of forever and romance and love and all that utter crap that had shrouded her brain. She didn't really know when it started, but she guessed it was the night she showed up at Quinn's doorstep after running away from home.

The rational part of her brain had put the incident out of her mind, figuring Quinn had meant it in a comforting way. It, meaning caring for her despite the troubles. But the emotional part of her let the feeling bloom like the tiny capsules her parents put in her Christmas stocking that slowly formed big, spongy shapes in hot water. Maybe that was when her love for Quinn took hold, and without that night, maybe it never would have happened at all. But she was fourteen. and she knew how stupid people could be at that age. She had pushed the feelings away, but there was only so many times that she could oscillate between blowing it off as a minor crush and desiring to have the blonde with her perpetually all the time.

* * *

><p><em>"Finn asked me out," she whispered over the scratching of pen against paper.<em>

_"Oh." _

_Santana was hunched over the history essay, and she knew the answer to the question that was burning in her mind before it even left Quinn's lips. But yet, she hoped against hope that it wasn't. _

_Quinn couldn't quite tell what Santana was implying. She was irritatingly inscrutable like that at times. _

"_I said yes. To him, I mean." _

"_Of course you did," Santana said, after a pause. She needed to learn to lower her expectations next time. _

"_Well, congrats, I guess."_

"_That's all you're going to say?" Quinn asked, putting down her pen. _

"_Do you want a medal or something?" Santana deadpanned, not even caring to look at her. "Because tough luck, Q, I don't have any to give out."_

"_Damn it, why can't you be happy for-"_

"_My friend who's running off with the very same pathetic excuse of a boy who forgot what lessons he was taking?" Santana exclaimed with her best condescending smile, saccharine enough to cause cavities. "Yeah...you go, Quinn!"_

* * *

><p>So, yes, she moved on. There was only this many times she could see Finn stick his tongue into Quinn's mouth with neither the slightest care nor concern.<p>

It was much easier to fall in love with someone who loved her back than sit around and wonder what went wrong. But there was that little gnawing part of her deep down that wondered if maybe, just maybe, if she had been one for sentiments, things might have turned out differently.

* * *

><p>"<em>Its not all that bad, Quinn," Rachel said in a quiet voice. "I mean, they have to take you back, right?"<em>

_Quinn stared at the brunette pointedly as she paced around her bedroom. __She didn't bother to answer Rachel's question, in case she jinxed it. _

_Russell Fabray was a man of utter realism. and too many clear-cuts. it was his principle that his life should be like a clear glass window - being able to see everything ahead of him for miles so clearly with nothing in his vision to be of hindrance, but he forgot that sometimes, during winter, windows get misted up with snow and condensed, fat rain drops and that sometimes, mischievous little boys throw eggs up at windows, or that sometimes, it just rains too heavily to see past the glaze of raindrops sliding down to the window pane. Despite that, he constructed the perfect scenery for himself outside of his little, clear window and consequently proceeded to do the same for his wife, eldest daughter, and finally, Quinn herself. _

_So when news of her unexpected pregnancy took flight, Quinn was sure there were two ways this would go. She would either be burnt like a witch at stake, or kicked out, and with the former option being banned, she found herself standing, trembling, at her very own doorstep as her father slammed the door in her face. Her fear of stepping outside the mundane, predetermined path set for her had been, and still was, completely valid. All it took was one mistake to be proven right, and she found herself crying alone in vacant bathrooms during school hours more than often. _

_It was on one such depressing occasion that Rachel found her; tears, smudged eyeliner and all, and had offered to take her in, and even if she didn't always show it, Quinn would be eternally grateful for that. Her dads were caring without pitying, though when Quinn first arrived, they had asked little sideways questions about her upbringing. She figured it was to see what kind of friend she would be to Rachel, and in all honesty, Quinn didn't mind at all. She thought it was nice that they cared so much for their daughter. _

_Visions of her receding back to seventh-grade Lucy in reverse evolution, with hair just as mousy and unwashed as she would be socially incompetent, and her jeans getting increasingly smaller and the rest happening spontaneously, haunted her. It wasn't just the appearance, it was everything that she worked hard for, and to see it all come tumbling down like a house of cards - to spend the rest of her life miserable and overlooked because of one __**stupid **__mistake; she wasn't ready for that. She could already feel herself reverting back to her bitter, bishy, misanthropic, sarcastic self and the moment it dawned on her, just how much she had to lose, she called it off with Finn, got an abortion and proceeded to try to live the rest of her life as normally as possible. The guilt that came with the abortion never ceased once, instead following her around like a shadow. _

"_I should have taken birth control pills," Quinn sighed._

"_I heard that birth control makes you fat and cranky though," Rachel mused, walking over to sit at the corner of the bed. _

"_So does pregnancy," Quinn snapped, as she moved her legs over to make room._

_It was on that day, the ninth day after her abortion that Santana came barging into Rachel Berry's bedroom. _

"_Santana! What you are even-?"_

_Her questions might as fell have been directed at the wall, because Santana didn't bother to respond. She stared at Quinn, with an expression of utmost rancor and sadness. _

_Quinn looked away. _

_Santana waited till the brunette scurried out and closed the door behind her. _

"_What the fuck, Quinn?" Santana exploded, but it was bordering more on exasperation and disappointment than actual anger. _

_The blonde frowned at the crudeness of it all. _

"_You let Finn stick his dick inside of you?! Of all people, him? And I thought you'd have enough sense to cover for the both of you, but I guess I was wrong," Santana paused until hazel eyes found her own. _

"_I can't tell which kills me more, Quinn, the fact that you got yourself into this mess, or that it didn't even occur to you to tell me, your best friend. I had to find this out from Mercedes, and here you are, living with Rachel Berry. I know you, Quinn, I could have helped you. Do you know how this makes me feel?" Santana spoke, but this time, it was much quieter. _

_It was as if Quinn could smell Santana's disappointment, like it was a pheromone._

"_How exactly does it make you feel, Santana?" Quinn asked, locking into her gaze. _

_Santana looked away, taking a few moments to look around Rachel's room. It was almost exactly as she could have imagined it; posters of Broadway bigshots and motivational posters. It was so Berry-like but the complete opposite of the guest who was staying over, and it made her ache the slightest bit more. _

"_Why?"_

_If Quinn hadn't seen Santana's lips move, she might not have bothered to acknowledge the question at all. She wasn't sure what the question was; why did she get pregnant, or why did she not tell Santana? Because either ways, what was she even supposed to say? That the only reason that she had stupidly gotten drunk was because she felt alone and discarded? That she had been left alone far too many times by Santana, for Brittany, that she had started to feel unworthy? That, through the haze of doubt and alcohol-induced decisions, sex had seemed like that one way of validating her self-worth?_

_Quinn kept quiet. _

"_Don't do that, Quinn. What is this really about?" Santana asked again. She was pleading this time. _

"_Nothing." _

_There was complete silence for a while. _

_Maybe the room was spacious enough to take in all of Rachel's big voice and high notes, but it wasn't big enough for that much tension. and Santana left without a goodbye._


	6. Chapter 6

Progress

Everyday she came back to her apartment, and Santana was there.

After their little confrontation-turned-confession, even maintaining eye contact was becoming an arduous task. It was at the point where they wished there was more than just a flimsy wooden door to separate them, and they could last days without acknowledging the other's presence, or to constantly observe the other's movements, dependent entirely on how stubborn they both were on that day, and it was starting to suck the life out of her.

There were questions burning inside of Quinn, and she was sure it was the same case for Santana, but she doubted neither was willing to go ahead and ask any. Sweeping things under the rug had always been a common habit between them and it wasn't going to change soon, considering how the last time they had spoken was three days ago, when Santana came back home late into the night, way past Quinn. Normally, Quinn would have been fast asleep, but she stayed up that day; she'd deny it if anyone asked if it was out of concern.

Santana slowly crept in, in case the other occupant in the house was sleeping, but the silhouette perched on the sofa told her otherwise. Not caring to keep the noise down anymore, she closed the door.

"Did you take the keys?" Quinn asked from where she was seated, calmness masking her curious tone. Of course Santana had taken them! Quinn had left the keys just in sight and just within reach, just so that she could.

Santana stared at her. She hadn't had wanted Quinn to realise that she'd taken them; now she had more things to hold over her head and her pride would take more of a battering than it already had, though she had found it highly suspicious that the blonde had left her house keys lying around so casually.

"Do you have a problem with that?" she challenged nonchalantly. Denial was pointless as of the moment, seeing how she was the only possible culprit around.

Quinn considered what she said for a moment, and (reluctantly) acknowledged that in reality, she really did not care if Santana wanted to go out or not. So long as she didn't lose them, or start to bring random strangers into her house, she couldn't be affected at all. The thought of succumbing to the temptation of being petty and cause another argument lingered at the back of her mind, but what exactly would she accomplish? Having arguments masked by the presence that the main problem was the keys and only the keys, when really, it was about so much more, was completely and utterly pointless.

"Not really," Quinn muttered, ignoring the shock that briefly crossed Santana's face. "Just don't come back too late," she added, after a short pause.

"And why's that?" Santana shot back. She was still angry at Quinn, and silence didn't mean everything was forgiven. Be it out of concern or just hospitality, what Quinn had said had been a kind gesture, and Santana wasn't prepared for that; she had enough of being screwed over.

"Fine then, do whatever you like," Quinn snapped, standing up abruptly.

Lips parted in confusion quickly turned into a scowl, and she watched closely as Quinn disappeared behind her door and into her room. This was definitely a new low for Santana; to be pitied and sympathised by Quinn. But it was also absurd; it was a glitch in the routine they had grown accustomed to.

Other than the fact that it had been days she had last spoken to her housemate, she had more pressing issues to deal with. There was no way she was going to bundle all the bills on Quinn's head for the time being, since she had been responsible for half of it, and there was also the fact that she needed monetary backup for her needs (in this case, transport, food, and that new dress at the mall); in summary, she needed a job. Half the week had been spent hunting down suitable jobs she could take up till she started schooling, and there weren't many places that were willing to hire a nineteen year old unless she was ready to show her rambunctious twins, though one of the ladies managing a pub, who in Santana's opinion had the glossy look of a very expensive prostitute, had offered quite a sum for that.

As much as she would have liked to be stripper or a pole dancer, and in all honesty, she didn't really mind being one - the pole in the gym back in high school had given her enough practice - but being surrounded by desperate, ogling, wrinkled men was not the most appealing option. She could be an attention whore at times, but there were limits to everything.

As day two of her job hunt neared night, she had been this close to giving up and just applying for a job at a bookstore, but a new diner that opened up caught her eye, and luck had it that they were in dire need of a waitress who could sing. Smiling, she had left the place half an hour later, with a very reassuring "We'll let you know if you've landed the job."

The smile had soon dissipated into a scowl when she walked into the apartment to find the blonde very much awake and just as aware.

It was her ninth night at Quinn's place, and despite the bumps (more like mountains, she corrected herself) along the way, she felt that she should be congratulated for lasting a whole week with the blonde.

.

Abstinence had always been one of Quinn's forte. Even when it came to sex (or maybe all the people she tried it with were horrible), except that one time where she ended up with a damn bun in the oven of hers, she had been careful enough to know that curiosity killed the cat.

Quinn also knew satisfaction had brought the cat back, as her sister had ever so lovingly reminded her whenever she pried through one her friends' diaries.

She was curious to know where Santana was going off to, and her erratic patterns the past week hardly helped answer that question. Quinn had no idea where she slipped off to when she was out helping Biff with his dad, but she knew Santana usually came back home much later than her. She would be willing to bet that Santana was off shopping, but there was only this many times a person, no matter how fashionable, could shop and Santana clearly had exceeded her quota. Where else would she go? Freedom and privileges aside, Quinn doubted Santana would be traipsing around New York with neither purpose nor point.

But no, she wouldn't ask. This thing they were doing - not talking - it was going fine, and the last time Quinn had tried to initiate a conversation, Santana had been far from cooperative.

She continued to keep her tongue and questions in as the days rolled by, as did Santana, never once asking where Quinn slipped off to in the morning.

Then again, when living in such close proximity, communication would render itself inevitable, as they soon came to realise.

* * *

><p>Santana stared at the bathroom door, willing it to open. It was at times like this that she wished she was far, far away from this place, not that she didn't already do that on a daily basis. She had to use the bathroom urgently, as was expected of every other normal human being, and obviously Quinn had to be hogging the bathroom like no tomorrow.<p>

It wasn't just the fact that the hellhole of an apartment only had one bathroom - at least that was justifiable, considering how it was originally home to only one individual - but what was more aggravating was that Quinn was _singing in the shower. _

She had the _audacity_ to sing.

Not that it was bad, no, Quinn's singing was far from bad, it was good actually, as Santana reluctantly admitted. It wasn't news to her; she had heard Quinn more than enough times in the musty choir room to determine just how good she was. It was unnerving because she wasn't used to Quinn being happy. From what she was hearing from outside the bathroom door, the blonde certainly sounded happy enough - why else would she be singing? Santana had become accustomed to an agitated, perpetually unhappy Quinn over the course of the past few months, especially the past week, and it had been deemed as the norm; Santana understood it.

However, this -the carefree singing, the deviation from the norm - she did not understand.

She weighed her options; let the morning find her sacrificing her dignity or to swallow it up and just ask Quinn to hurry up. Frankly, it wasn't much of a choice, and Santana was about to call out when the singing ceased to a slow hum, before ultimately dying out along with the shower.

Ceasing her opportunity, Santana shot up from the couch, watching the door handle intently as she painfully waited for it to turn. Patience had been one heck of a virtue, and she stood still against the door, quietly. The sounds of padded footfalls against damp tiles were audible, and the moment the door opened, she burst in before Quinn could even come out.

Maybe she should have thought this through, but what followed was almost a given; Quinn gasped, her eyes stormy as she stumbled away from the door almost instantaneously after seeing Santana. She slid over the slippery tiles to, fortunately, stop short of the sink. Annoyance and shock were drawn over her features, but she didn't have much time to think; Santana hadn't been as lucky as the blonde, instead losing her balance and skidding over to Quinn.

It was almost instinctive for Quinn to reach out and grab Santana (just a reflex, she told herself), but it was futile seeing how her own once stable bearings were compromised in the heroic attempt. If anyone had had the pleasure to walk in on them that very moment, they would have seen the duo sprawled across the wet floor in a puddle of soapy water.

"What the heck were you doing?" Quinn shrieked, trying, and failing to stand up due to the well-lubricated floor and shaky legs. Her bathrobe had conveniently come undone in the process, and despite the years of familiarity, Santana grimaced and looked away.

"Argh, do you have to be such a clumsy ass?" the latter grumbled, grabbing onto the side of the bathtub to hoist herself up.

"I'm a clumsy ass?! You were the one who tried to scare me!" Quinn protested vehemently, tightening the grip around her robe and pulling it, She had already looked stupid once, she wasn't planning to do it again unintentionally.

"I needed to use the bathroom!" Santana snapped, glaring at Quinn.

"You didn't have to maul me in the shower like that!" she retorted angrily, legs still splayed in the shallow puddle. She shot a disgusted look at Santana before leaning back on her heels in an attempt to get up.

"Don't blame me for your poor sense of balance," Santana mumbled, proceeding to step over the threshold over the bathroom when she found her ankle grasped by a set of slender fingers, and before she knew it, was falling once again onto the wet ground. "What the fuck, Quinn?" Santana questioned hotly, her tailbone still buzzing from the impact, as she swiveled around to face Quinn at eye-level, seeing how both of them were awkwardly hugging the floor.

"This is your fault, Santana," Quinn muttered evenly, frowning, though she knew the chances of her looking even remotely authoritative when she was on the ground, soapy and crumpled, were devastatingly low.

"Right. Real mature, Quinn. Is this what they teach you in Yale?" Santana drawled, propping herself up with her elbows as wet curls clung onto her nape.

"What does that have to do with you barging into the bathroom like some lavatory maniac? You scared me!" Quinn repeated, clambering to her feet shakily. With the selection of a few choice swear words, she shot Santana an angry scowl. She hobbled to the door, but not before she caught a face full of soapy, lukewarm water.

"Oh god, gross," Quinn spat, leaning against the doorframe. She snapped her eyes open from the unexpected face wash to see a smug grin on Santana's face. "And you said I wasn't mature," Quinn snorted, using the sleeve of her robe to wipe her face.

"And i'll say it again," Santana supplied nimbly from the floor, ignoring just how foolish she must have looked to Quinn.

"I'll be just as mature then," Quinn smirked, cupping her hands together to get some water to douse Santana.

Maybe they were both too deep into the bizarre situation to resist, but Quinn couldn't hold back a genuine smile before she realised, maybe, it had gone on for far too long. Halting, she stiffened her back

Sure enough, Santana sensed it as well, as the latter arranged back her features into her permanent, comfortable scowl. Her defences kicked in like a self-mechanism, and though the childish, juvenile situation had been utterly and completely bizarre, it had been somewhat pleasing, but that was something she'd rather keep to herself.

Her scowl hardened at the faltering grin on Quinn's face, and she slowly got to her feet.

"I need to use the bathroom now," she muttered coldly, the contrast from only moments earlier being strikingly obvious.

"Okay."

The response was just as passive as the blonde pivoted on her heels and limped out of the bathroom.

Santana fired a glare at Quinn's retreating back, though in all honesty, she was anything but angry. As she left, her bathrobe fluttering behind her, Santana closed the door, though not as loudly as she could have. In the silence of it all, with the occasional drip of water, it became aware to her just how strong _her_ scent was in the bathroom. It was thick amongst the lingering, cloudy steam and Santana couldn't help but inhale deeply till the familiar lavender scent reminded her who it belonged to.

If this wasn't the most confusing predicament as of yet, she didn't know what was.

On the other side of the door, Quinn briefly acknowledged though she didn't know if Santana's expression of dissatisfaction was programmed or just limited to that one, stupid scowl she wore all the damn time, she knew that the fleeting grin, back in the bathroom, had suited her face so much better.

She could hear vague, muffled cussing echoing from inside of the bathroom, and she had to suppress the tempting urge to roll her eyes. It was typical of Santana, but she was secretly relieved that they had somehow managed to avoid an argument of some sort.

Maybe this was progress, however grudging and reluctant and slow it turned out to be.

* * *

><p><em>It is more than often said that when life gives you lemons, its most appropriate to make lemonade.<em>

_Well, Santana begged to differ. _

_It was all bullshit; life didn't just simply give her lemons, it only showed her the lemons she knew she could never afford, in which case, there would be no lemonade to make at the end of it all - which was just simply, and wholly, unfair._

_She loved her father, with almost every fibre in her being, but it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he let his drunken rage take over, that he let it rule him. She didn't know why her father had to let it rule him, why he had to be two people. She wanted to know why he got to be two different people, and she only got to be herself; the one who was there to take what he had to give, and who was there to pick up the pieces afterward._

_Coming back home filled her with apprehension as the days rolled by, and once step closer to her front door meant one step more tentative. She would wait outside, still as a statue as she listened for any indication of his current mood. Sometimes he would be his usual self, the caring father he had always been, and other times, he'd turn into a savage monster._

_She always hoped it was the former. _

_She knew where this was going but the tiny flicker of hope that her father would return to himself kept her from doing anything she might regret._

_It scared her when Quinn questioned her about the bruise she had that day. Her father had given it to her in the spur of the moment, a result of one too many beer cans lying around. She had had half a mind to tell Quinn, about everything, but some secrets are meant to be kept, as her grandmother often said._

_It was normal for Santana to sleep over at Quinn's house at the weekends, and her parents had taken a liking to her after Quinn managed to convince them that Santana was a straight-A student, and the fact that she was a cheerleader helped. It was just like a normal sleepover. They did talk about teenage things; boys, periods, gossip - stuff Santana had taught Quinn when she decided to remodel her life, but anything beyond that was a sensitive topic. Not that they were too emotional, but neither knew if they had the tact nor if they knew how to react when it came to things like that. They didn't know how to face reality, and Santana had often wondered if it would backfire on them one day. _

_Her father had been exceptionally pissed off when Santana traipsed back home after one such sleepover, and she knew it had less to do with her and more to do with alcohol, but she knew better than to say that out loud. She took off her shoes quietly, and pushed open the door. She could see his silhouette against the couch, and she knew he was aware of her presence. Loud, aggravating tantrums were one thing, but deathly silence was a whole new territory. It was scarier. _

_What took you so long?" he asked hoarsely from the couch, as he swirled around his drink in his glass before gulping it down. She stiffened at the voice. Why was it that she was walking on eggshells in her own house? She willed her rigid body to relax. _

"_I was at a friend's," she replied meekly, trying to sneak into her room before he flew into his temper. _

"_Again? Just how ungrateful can-"_

_Santana was more perplexed than scared. What did her maintaining a friendship with Quinn have to do with being ungrateful?_

"_But-"_

"_You piece of shit, didn't I tell you to not go out?" _

_Santana frowned at the foul language, but she knew she had no right to judge. She was just as dirty-mouthed as the rest of them. "No, you didn't. And there's nothing wrong with me going out at all," she muttered, loud enough for her father to hear as she made her way to her room. _

_She might as well physically lit a fuse in his head, as he staggered his way up to her. His breath stank, and Santana felt an unwelcome pang of sympathy for her father. Somewhere, deep, deep, deep, beneath her wall of disgust, she wished he could get back to his senses, even if it were just for a little while. _

"_Listen here," he growled, "you're not going to go out anymore. Is that clear?" His face mottled crimson, and he didn't even wait for Santana to reply as he spat out his words with the ferocity and rapidity of a machine gun fire. Santana heard the occasional 'ungrateful bitch' and 'whore', and she fought the overwhelming urge to just walk out of the house. _

_She had had enough of this; it wasn't as if it was her fault all the shit happened. Why did she have to suffer? She had enough bruises to show, and she knew the sudden bravado that coursed through her was irrational. Without wiping the spit from her ashen face, she leant closer, perfectly composed, or so she seemed, and uttered three words. _

"_I-I don't care." _

_His fuse simmered and fizzed like a firework in a chill autumn breeze, and almost instantaneously, he exploded with unrestrained fury. Santana ran to her room, slamming the door behind her and leaning against it with all her strength as her father pounded on it. She regretted it the moment the words left her lips. All that false bravado- just who the fuck was she kidding? _

_The door threatened to fly off its squeaky hinges as he pounded with force. Santana was lean and strong, but she was small and skinny and comparatively no match to a grown man, and it wasn't long before he entered the room; the door having given way. She was sprawled on the floor, elbows buckling as he towered over her. She remained as still as a cadaver and just as pallid, unblinking as he snarled at her. _

_She sensed it; she knew it was coming, but the force of the blow he dealt was still just as shocking and painful as ever. He had always been careful to never hit her too hard on her face. Some bruises can be covered, but some can't and even in his drunken state, he had always seemed to know that. Her father was still there, a tirade of expletives radiating off him, but she could not seem to process a single word. He left soon after, slamming the worn-down door hard behind him. _

_She pulled her knees in, bringing them close to her chest as she rocked back and forth. __Crying was letting people know that they've succeeded, that she was willing to spend time and energy poring over their crap - it __wasn't going to help; not now, not ever and she bit her lip in order not to._

_She was miserable, so why didn't she leave? She had tried to muster what was left of her spirit a few weeks ago; turning up at her grandmother's place and sleeping in the guest room. She had been guarded enough to not let slip what was actually going on at home, choosing rather to say that she had simply missed her abuela. The next day, he had tracked her down, begged her to come back, promised to change. _

_It lasted two days._

_But it had happened far too many times to neither forgive nor forget, and she never prided herself on having a big heart anyways. _

_That was it. _

_She was leaving. _

_Where exactly, she'd figure that out somehow. _

_Life wasn't a movie; she couldn't just pretend this was a Disney film where she could just run away into the woods and life the rest of her life save from danger and make friends with talking animals._

_Fuck, no. _

_Maybe a few weeks from now, coming to the decision of escaping from her own house might seem impractical and impulsive, but at that moment fear got the better of her. She was too scared, and fear makes people do crazy things. Being calm and level-headed now was the only way out, and as much as she regretted acting on impulse, it wasn't like she could just saunter back into her house. She was a teenager with an abusive father and running away from home meant that she had no roof over her head, no money in her pockets and no food in her stomach, and neither of the three was remotely appealing to Santana. _

_The more important problem as of now was to take care of herself. That was the easier part, seeing how months of Cheerios practice had led to her being somewhat experienced in self-remedy. Keeping her head elevated, pressing a cold compress against the bruise; she was doing it all, but there was only this fast a bruise could heal. Going to school with her face marred would be a dead giveaway that something was wrong. Speculations would rise, and sooner or later the possible theories would involve her being an illicit drug dealer who had gotten involved in a gang fight in some remote alley. _

_She momentarily wondered if going to police station was practical, but it would blow up and that was the last thing she needed at that moment. Going to her grandmother's seemed like a viable option, but she needed money to get there._

* * *

><p><em>There were problems - and then there were <em>_problems__. _

_Quinn could handle a bad hair day or even a 'B' on her tests, but what she couldn't handle was a particularly furious coach who was on her heels for Santana's sudden absence from practice._

"_I don't care what you do, Q, but she's one of the lead dancers and without her, the formation will be abysmal! She's your job, take care of it!" Sue shrieked, her blonde hair quivering in beat with her agitation. She was adamant that the Cheerio's performance was spot-on and despite her insistence that it was only for the cheer team's greater good, Quinn knew all her coach wanted to do at that moment was to out-do the performance that would be put up by the Glee club. She suspected it was closely tied to the hatred the coach had for a certain, curly-haired Spanish teacher, but at that moment, Quinn could care less about her teachers. _

_She wondered if they had done the wrong thing; nudging their little feud in the toilet out of their conversations and minds. She had decided not to press further for any details - if she wanted to tell her, Santana would, and Quinn would wait till she did. Thats what the rest of her family always did at home, and it seemed to work fairly well in any case. _

_Despite that, she was still inevitably surprised when Santana turned up at her doorstep that night, blinking rapidly with red-tinged eyes, with a haphazardly stuffed duffle bag, and she was still very much surprised, as they lay in the four-poster bed together, to hear what she had to say. _

"_You could have told me, you know," Quinn mumbled, smothered by a thick blanket. _

"_Well, I just did, didn't I?" Santana replied, untying her hair before collapsing back into the jumble of sheets and pillows. All the crying and lamenting and mourning and grieving had been done and over, and it was time to sleep. Peacefully, she dared to hope. _

"_You never talk about your parents." The muffled voice was almost inaudible, but the accusatory tone did not go unnoticed. _

"_Neither do you," Santana retorted. _

"_Yeah, well, the house of Fabrays isn't really a safe place to land right now either."_

"_I'm not surprised; I never liked them," Santana said offhandedly. _

_Quinn suppressed the slightest curve at her mouth's corner ; she could understand where Santana was coming from. "Yeah, well, you should get some sleep. Its been a long day, we'll figure out what to do tomorrow."_

"_We?" Santana tilted her head up, looking at Quinn questioningly. _

"_Yes, we. You and me. Now," she replied, as if it was the most obvious, simple logic in the world as she snuggled closer, "Get some rest."_

_Despite the seriousness of her current predicament, Santana's face broke into a grin as she did just as told._

_It was intimate in a way its never been, and both of them knew it. It was just Quinn, Santana, and the vast amount of time that night had seemed to offer, and it was still very much intimate when they drifted off to sleep with musical breaths and limbs splayed against each other._

* * *

><p>AN: i'm so sorry for the short update, but i hope its good enough, and thank you so much for the reviews and support! I appreciate it a lot, really, and its my first fic, so harsh criticism is welcomed! Also, sorry for the confusion, but the plot isn't very closely linked to the original, and i thought it'd be less complicated if quinn hadn't cheated on finn. so, yes, i hope you like it (:


	7. Chapter 7

A big thank you to everyone who followed, favourited or reviewed this story! Its means a lot and I really appreciate it :D it might seem a little slow for now (what with all the fighting and stuff) but there'll be lots of quinntana soon, and more graphic sexual content coming up so just a heads up! thanks again guys, and i hope you like this chapter (:

* * *

><p><span>That's How It Ends<span>

Working at Spotlight Diner turned out to be far more fun that she had expected but less than she had hoped. With a boss named Gunther who insisted vehemently that she should smile wider at entering customers and a deep-fryer that did less of the frying and more of splattering-hot-oil-all-over-the-place, Santana figured that the pay was as good as it could get, though she wondered if the number of times customers stepped on her toes made it worth it. A job was a job, though, and on the third day of working there, she had met the boss, Gunther's wife. This lady, with her striking blonde hair and her piercing blue eyes and her picture-perfect legs, made Santana just wonder how a scruffy man like Gunther had managed to land her as his star wife, but what made her wonder more was that she had an uncanny resemblance to Brittany.

Maybe to Brittany, and everyone else in that choir room who had thought that they were a loving couple, it had seemed like the inevitable end to their long-distance relationship, but that was utter crap. Brittany had been so afraid of growing up, so desperately clinging onto her carefree immaturity which she had made herself comfortable in, that she had failed her senior year and of course, screwed over Santana in the process, and Santana had been so afraid of rejection that she had broken it off with Brittany before the latter might have had a chance to cheat on her. She had rarely been rejected, and the fact that it could be an impending possibility, scared her. It's like there were hundreds of people out there but to spend her time on just one, when that person has another few hundred people to love, what were the chances that she would dedicate herself to her? To choose one thing meant to give up on another, and that was a policy Santana had very well been accustomed too, and the first time she decided to stop waiting for Quinn had taught her that. But she couldn't deny that it sucked. It had taken her months to get over the impossibility that was Quinn (was she still in the process? She never was quite sure) and she presumed it would be the same for Brittany.

The damage had been done, and her ex-girlfriend had cost her her scholarship but yet, she missed her. To spend two years with her, then to not - it was a difficult, lost, vacillating time. They still kept in touch, an occasional call or text to find out how the other was doing, peppered with casual smileys that didn't really mean anything anymore. Her heart didn't flutter at a new text from Brittany, nor did she break out into a huge smile every time she called, but that familiar douse of regret kicked in soon enough. She didn't need to spend the better part of her time moping around and listening to songs about heartbreak to know that she missed the blonde; she had other ways to come to terms with it. Maybe the magnitude of the loss hadn't hit her, but she was in no hurry and she would push it away if it came near, because after all, she was doing fine in that little bubble of hers. She would wait till it bursts.

Until then, she'd call herself a committed hedonist rather than an ignorant coward.

She just didn't know how (yet), but she imagined Brittany's wide smile more than enough times and it was so much more welcoming than that distasteful frown that she was currently on her way to.

She walked across that all too familiar pathway to Quinn's apartment, four days after their little bathroom incident. She had pushed it to the far corner at the back of her mind, though she couldn't deny that she missed talking to her housemate like that, comfortably.

It was just past ten, and the night was as clear and cool as could be, but the perfect weather did nothing to elevate the mood, nor did it make her want to look up at the stars that twinkled down. She had no time to look at stars anymore; there was enough going on down where she was to contemplate the wonders of the galaxy.

Sure enough, there was a lot going on in the apartment when she walked in. The whole place was a huge mess, with clothes strewn across the pristine floor and books tossed haphazardly onto the couch. The blonde had her head burrowed in one of the cupboards, oblivious to Santana's arrival, and apparently, the mess around her as well. If there was one positive trait she could associate to Quinn, it was that she was neat, a huge contrast to Santana herself. Normally, Santana would not have minded; she wasn't the neatest freaks around, and she clearly made a mess every now and then, but what annoyed her was that her items had been searched as well. Just, what did Quinn expect to find in that one small suitcase Santana had brought along with her. Unless she had been looking for clothes and lotions, she wasn't in for much luck.

"What are you doing?" Santana asked sharply, closing the door behind her. She pulled out a sock that had been poking out from under her foot when she strode in, and was about to fling it away when she realised it was her own. Where the heck was the other one then? Maneuvering around the mess, she dumped her bag on the sofa. Quinn flinched at the voice, but didn't bother to look at Santana as she ducked down from the cupboard to the drawers at the bottommost shelf.

Santana frowned, but bent down to shove some of her clothes back into her suitcase; in went her scattered jeans, her jacket, and... the other sock. A glimpse into Quinn's room told her it hadn't been spared the blonde's sudden frenzy, and Santana voiced out again. "Why the hell were you looking through my stuff?"

Quinn's head popped up, and she blinked before realising that Santana had asked her a question. "I was looking for something," she mumbled, proceeding to travel across the length of the room on all fours, occasionally peeking under cracks for something.

"No shit, Sherlock," Santana said sharply. An agitated snarl was beginning to creep up on her, and she sighed deeply. She was tired, she wanted to sleep, that's all. Was that so hard?

"What are you looking for?" she demanded, despite her lethargy. Might as well help the damsel in distress if she was ever going to get some sleep soon.

"No, its ok-" Quinn mumbled, her voice muffled as she squinted underneath the couch.

"Stop being such a pain in the ass, Quinn, you can't just mess my stuff up and tell me its okay," Santana interrupted, her scowl hardening when Quinn surfaced to face her.

"My necklace. I can't find it," she sighed, stretching her hand in to feel around for it.

Instinctively, brown eyes flickered to Quinn's neck, which was, as expected, bare and void of the silver cross that she had been so accustomed too. As far-fetched as it sounded, she had never once seen Quinn without it, and as unfathomable as that was, she knew how much it meant to the blonde. She knew it, but she never understood it, but now was clearly not the time to dwell into that.

"Where did you last see it?" Santana prompted, ignoring the gnawing part of her that advised to keep her mouth shut and her hands to herself.

"I don't know...I don't remember taking it off," Quinn replied anxiously, getting up from her knees as she stared at the mess she had caused. Santana's eyes fell to her moist lip, parted to reveal dents from where she had chewed in anxiety.

Santana chewed the inside of her mouth, quickly scanning the room before giving Quinn a weathered frown. "Why the fuck were you going through my stuff though?" she questioned, genuinely curious. Did she think the necklace could have magically transported from her neck to a suitcase that was snugly zipped up?

"I.. I thought maybe you took it," she argued, though she realised how absolutely stupid that sounded.

"You thought I would take it," Santana repeated slowly, arching a brow. "Right. Fucking smart, Quinn," she snorted derisively.

"Look, if you're not going to help, just," Quinn started, but faltered soon enough, realising that she couldn't just ask Santana to go sit on the couch, seeing how she had upturned all of the drawers' contents onto it. "Just, go sit in my room," she finished, giving Santana a pointed look that clearly warned her not to touch any of Quinn's belongings. "I'll clean up your stuff for you," she added, after a thoughtful pause.

Brown eyes flickered agitatedly; just who did Quinn think she was to boss her around? She wasn't a kid, and if anything, she should be the one angry. After all, it was her clothes strewn across the carpet.

"That's all?" Santana huffed. She had something to hold over the blonde's head and there was no way she was letting it pass.

Quinn's annoyed expression melted as she stared at her, wondering what else Santana was expecting. Her loss of words was temporary, when she noticed the latter's devilish smirk lurking at the corner's of her mouth.

Right, she wanted an apology.

"Sorry," she mustered through tight lips.

"I can't hear you." Santana pushed her luck, but Quinn seemingly wasn't in the mood for the gambit.

"Just go," Quinn hissed in annoyance.

"Isn't that a lot better?" Santana said smugly, shooting Quinn a snarky grin before heading off to her room.

She glared as the door closed with a mocking thud, but whatever words she had hoped to say died on her lips. She had other matters to deal with; she needed to find that necklace. It wasn't that it was expensive, no, but it was a family heirloom, given by her mother to both her and Frannie. It had become a habit to touch it, just for reassurance, and other than the blatant religious significance it carried, it served as a constant reminder that she was a Fabray. Although, she had tried to figure out, umpteen times, just what she was trying to prove whenever she thought like that, and maybe more importantly, who she was trying to prove it to.

She wasn't in touch with any of her classmates, save for the few in glee, her mother was the more concerned about her wine than about anything else, and her father was raising another daughter who wasn't Quinn with another woman who wasn't her mother. She wondered is she was proving her self-worth to her sister, to show that yes, she could be better than Frannie, because no matter what or when, the elder had always seemed to be the perfect child, despite the imperfect family she belonged to. Quinn had surpassed all the mistakes she had done to end up here, and here she was, trying to find the reason as to why she did that. Maybe, she hoped, that it was her need to redeem the family's name. Having the importance of upholding the appearance had been knocked into her head often and hard enough, and maybe some part of her thought that is she was perfect enough, everything would go back to normal.

Maybe that was why she was so frantic when she couldn't feel the cold metal around her neck; it reminded her, it kept her grounded - like fog at an airport, she thought bitterly. But for now, it would suffice to assume that the only reason she felt so anxious without it was due to a force of habit.

Another half hour of hunting yielded disappointing results, and Quinn spent just as much time cleaning up the place and putting everything back where it belonged. Dusting the invisible grit off her shirt, she headed back to her room, where Santana had safely seeked refuge in. Quinn was about to tentatively knock on the door when she realised what a bizarre spectacle it must be for anyone who walked in, for her to be knocking on her own damn door. Her brows creased in annoyance at the prospect and she pushed the door open, albeit with more force than required.

There was a flash of movement, but before Quinn could figure out what had happened, Santana hopped off the bed. "Are you done?"

Quinn nodded slowly, staring around her room. "What were you doing?" she asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," she replied simply, easing her way past Quinn.

"Uh yeah, no," Quinn snapped, "You did something."

"Don't flatter yourself, Quinn, your room isn't at all interesting," she retorted evenly, making her way out of the room and to the kitchen. "Your delusions of persecution are a telltale sign of early stage schizophrenia, just so you know."

The mocking tone reverberated through her room, and Quinn pursed her lips, the familiar frown making her way to her face. The sounds of trickling water that came soon enough told her the other occupant of the house had decided to make herself comfortable in the shower, and Quinn couldn't help but to steal a glance just to make sure.

She was sure Santana had looked through her room. It would be unlike her not to.

But it was way past the respectable time to sleep, and though Quinn could have cried over how comfortable her bed looked at that moment, she grudgingly began to clean the place up.

* * *

><p>It was a picture of them, hugging on the bleachers, smiling widely with the sun in their faces.<p>

Quinn's love for taking pictures, and the significance of when it was taken (it was their first nationals) had resulted in that little picture Santana had found, in its battered, petite, plastic frame in the cupboard in Quinn's room, despite the latter's warning to not snoop around.

Battered, she called it. Such a simple word for a simple idea, but this was not that simple. She had safely assumed Quinn had thrown those pictures away, but to see that she hadn't; it was unnerving.

It made her wonder what was it that they - she - was really angry about. They were living in the same house, for fuck's sake, but yet they were separated by the unspoken explanations and the omnipresent, ever-tangible tension that hummed in the air and pulsated in their hearts.

The smiles on their faces, fresh and wide, was so deceptively alluring, and in a hesitant moment, Santana was almost convinced that it was just as easy as it looked for them. But it wasn't, it never had been, and she doubted it ever will be. Time had given her perspective, but not the courage to face up to the reality, and ignorance was as bliss as bliss could be.

It was a picture of them, hugging on the bleachers, smiling widely with the sun in their faces, and there was Brittany in the background.

Taken before the Unholy trinity, then.

As much as she hated to come to terms with it, their little trio had been absolute fiction. There was one who was so afraid of growing up that she's willing to delude herself, another, with nothing to her name and nowhere to go, and the last, living in a bubble of her own, too scared to come to terms with everything. It was like the blind leading the blind, and it was a pathetic joke in itself.

It was a joke that was as funny as it was cruel. She was back here, back to square one, with Quinn.

She wondered if maybe they should try and start all over.

It would change things, but she wasn't sure how. Maybe that was why she chose to leave the picture where she found it just in time as the brass handle turned, and Quinn walked in.

* * *

><p>It was a picture of them, hugging on the bleachers, smiling widely with the sun in their faces, overturned in the midst of the rest of rubbish that littered the room.<p>

She wondered if Santana had seen it.

_They were wearing the same tight high ponytail, the same perfectly fitted uniform, the bright red words emblazoned across their chests. It was a mark of the elite, the brand that let them hold their head high and walk proudly down the hallway past countless, faceless students; they were nothing but a thoughtless blur as Quinn and Santana passed them with the regality they had. _

_Santana had walked with her, pace for pace, with the same swagger and authority, her terrifying beauty complimenting the very nature of her step. She matched Quinn with each step, and where the latter cut, she sliced, and they relished the walk. The hallway could as well have been never ending, because as far as Quinn was concerned, the world was theirs._

Quinn stared at it, vaguely remembering that she chucked it into the cupboard.

_They continued walking down the hallway, basking in the glow of the eyes that train at their back; filled with admiration and envy of their hard earned figure, their abilities, everything from the shining hair to the sharp curve of the jaw to the perfectly trimmed and painted nails. _

_Quinn stumbled, but she ignored the glitch in the system and continued walking, her head held higher to compensate. But Santana's shadow trailed behind, slower and out of pace,and Quinn turned to her, only to find her looking at someone else. There was a new addition to the duo, and where the center had once been the linked pinkies between Quinn and Santana, it shifted to Quinn when Brittany joined them on the left. Quinn didn't mind, because Brittany's deep blue eyes glowed with the innocence she could never have, and her smile was as pure as Quinn's wasn't. She didn't mind, because she searched Brittany's face and she could not find a single feature that looked back at her with malice. _

_She smiled, because she thought they would last. _

Quinn picked the frame up; it was the picture of them, hugging on the bleachers, smiling widely with the sun in their faces, and there was Brittany in the background.

_She stumbled again, harder and louder this time. She lost her rhythm, she was lost. She turned to her right, her confidante, her support, and her lips quivered the slightest when she saw that Santana had fallen back. Where once she had been with Quinn, she was with Brittany, and they had been more than happy to let Quinn take the lead. _

_Quinn should have continued smiling, but she didn't. She was scared, because she knew sometimes, it was better to follow than to lead, but she still walked. The faceless crowd was beginning to take shape, and their voices were becoming louder. _

_She stumbled again. But this time, she tripped. Her hair was messed up, the focus was lost, and the buzzing crowd swirled in on her from all sides. By the time she had shakily gotten to her feat, the crowd no longer parted at her sight. The blood red words splattered across chest were now dirty with grime and dust, and she fumbled at the side of the hallway. The centre of the all too familiar hallway was intimidating in a way its never been, and as Quinn panicked, she saw Santana and Brittany turning into the corner, their pinkies linked._

Her eyes traced the figure in the background that was Brittany, and the irony of the situation hit her.

There it was. There, _she _was.

Making her presence known so easily, so casually, at the wrong place and the wrong time. Quinn wondered just how she did; sneaking up on them - her - and claiming everything as it were her own.

Oh, that's right.

Start together, end together.

But Brittany wasn't here now, and that was what mattered; that was what Quinn was fine with.

* * *

><p>Quinn awoke to soft, white sheets cushioning her. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking to get the sleep out of them as she poked her crowning glory of unkempt hair out from under the duvet.<p>

It was Sunday.

She inched off the bed, and she couldn't quite put her finger on that gnawing, restless feeling that had manifested itself within her, like some sadistic tumour. Her fingers reached to caress the little chain against her collarbone, just to cling onto a little piece of reassurance, and it hit her.

It wasn't there.

Grimacing inwardly, she hobbled to the door.

A pair of eyes flickered towards her as she entered the living room, apprehensive and guarded. Quinn had to look twice to reaffirm that, yes, Santana was up early despite it being a weekend. The petite figure was smothered in blankets, facing the television mounted on the wall with the remote resting careless against her chest.

Quinn eyed the remote, ignoring the fact that Santana was becoming too comfortable for her liking. The action might have annoyed her, but it didn't, for now. Hazel orbs settled on the discarded article of clothing at the foot of the sofa; a lacy bra that contrasted too darkly against the carpet, and travelled over to the coffee table where a black thong (Quinn momentarily wondered if is even covered anything - it was that fucking tiny) glared back at her rudely.

She pursed her lips; signs of Santana were beginning to spill over into the house. The mess might have been endearing to Brittany, who often referred to it as a cute little way that Santana displayed her affection, but to Quinn? Not so much endearing as it was exasperating. Just last night, in the middle of all that mess, she had found four different shades of lipstick in the kitchen.

Quinn wanted to have none of that bullshit, but she was grumpy and barely awake - it could wait.

"Did you find it?"

Quinn turned towards Santana, staring blatantly at her. "No." She was still stuck, comfortably, in that half-asleep state where her brain refused to be alert, but she was awake enough to be surprised that Santana had initiate a conversation that didn't sound like she was trying to spit venom at Quinn.

It was a pleasant surprise.

Santana shifted awkwardly, uncomfortable with the monosyllabic response, as she trained her eyes back to the Johnny Depp movie on screen.

Edward Scissorhands.

Quinn's eyes traced the razors protruding from his hands.

_Oh, how she hated that movie. _

In the process of resettling herself on the couch, now her permanent home from the looks of it, the blanket slipped down near her chest, showing the patch of skin where her skin darkened to reveal hard, dark nipples. The remote had tumbled down, much to the owner's unawareness.

Quinn found herself staring for much longer than necessary before an ungraceful, pathetic gasp escaped her throat.

It was more of mortified cry, but it scared the woman on the couch nonetheless. She jumped, swivelling around to face Quinn with lips parted in confusion.

"What?!" she asked, with neither hesitation nor discomfort.

The sudden movement did nothing to ease the blanket that had been hiding the other half of Santana's rambunctious twins, as she cared to call them, and the blanket was soon lost, along with Santana's (apparently non-existent) modesty. Quinn found herself being audience to a free show; taking in everything from the pronounced clavicles to ample cleavage, though man-made, but she hadn't exactly been lacking before the surgery.

She knew Santana was all curves and in places where she wasn't, she was all toned, hard muscles; it wasn't anything Quinn hadn't laid eyes on, but she was still very much flabbergasted that Santana was well and awake and naked, for god's sake.

"What the fuck, Santana?!"

She prayed to her Christian God furiously, tearing her eyes away from the near-pronography that was Santana.

The latter seemed to have gotten on to Quinn's rude shock, and she quickly pulled the blanket back around her, shrivelling up back into couch. Amusement tugged at her lips, but she held it in. Now was clearly not the time.

She looked at Quinn sheepishly, as if that passed off as a sufficient response.

Quinn blinked, and sucked in a huge breath through gritted teeth.

"It...was getting kind of warm, okay?" Santana snapped, as if that explained why her bra was conveniently on the floor, a foot away. There was a warm, red tinge on her cheeks that wasn't a result of her extensive make-up set, and Quinn briefly thought it was adorable - it was so much more easier to face than that distasteful frown that seemed to linger around twenty-four seven.

"Did you actually sleep naked?" Quinn asked awkwardly, in spite herself. She was genuinely, and actually, curious.

"Not really," Santana mused. "I took it off just before you walked in." A foreboding grin played at her lips and she quickly diverted back to the movie.

"That's a relief," Quinn muttered, though still disapproving. With the crease still in her brow, she grabbed the nearest towel and headed off to the bathroom.

Her innocence (whatever was left of it, in any case) was being seriously undermined as of that moment, and even as the cold jets of water streamed over her, she couldn't get the image, one that been so desperately intimate but so very wrong, out of her head. It was more than just a kind gesture to say that Santana was pretty, because she was hauntingly beautiful in so many ways; and those very same looks terrified Quinn in a frightening way. Hadn't she yearned for them when those very same features had been too busy gazing fondly at Brittany?

She did manage to do forget about it briefly, after a long while, when the mirror had steamed up thoroughly and the water was beginning to scald her and blotches of red were visible on her pale skin. Cursing silently, she wondered just how many gallons of holy water she'd have to drink to compensate.

On the other side of the bathroom, the sounds of water were not at all relaxing to Santana's ears. Not when Johnny Depp was on screen, despite that ridiculous hair and weird claws. Quinn's crass movements from inside the bathroom were distracting, and she thought it was best to at least get the bra on before Quinn made her appearance, though it had been fun watching how the blonde was more fazed at her expense than Santana herself.

The rest of the morning passed in comfortable silence, save for the sounds from the television, with Santana remaining stationary at her position on the couch while Quinn sat on the sofa, thumbing through a book. Often, Santana threw a glance at the blonde, not at all surprised that the affiliation to books had never quite left her, despite all the years. She decided to let it lie that Quinn stole a few moments away from her book to stare at the movie, clicking her tongue in annoyance whenever Claws McHands showed up.

Quinn had started on the book way before the new occupant's arrival, but she hadn't had the time to actually continue it. She did her very best to stare at the page, to focus on the words, to hope that some of them actually sink in, but the pair of dark eyes blazing heatedly in her direction every few minutes was making the process hard as hell. She caught Santana's eye once, and if came as a huge surprise that neither looked away quick enough.

Santana smiled, a small crooked smile that seemed just the slightest bit sweet, and Quinn's cheeks creased with a grin just as small. She buried her nose back in her book, but couldn't help but linger over the fact that Santana had one of those annoyingly perfect mouths; one that seemed like part pout and part smirk. It took her a few moments to realised what she was visualising, and a few more to mentally admonish herself.

It was probably the first, after the very day Santana had arrived, that they were seated in the same room without getting up on each other's throats.

Despite the gravity of the past few days, it was pleasant, and as Santana watched the end credits travel up the screen slowly, she hoped, despite herself, that she hadn't jinxed it.

* * *

><p>Quinn was four chapters away from finishing the book. Sixteen chapters had led up to the climax, which was currently oozing all over the words and as immersed as Quinn was in what Garth Stein had to say in the paragraphs that littered the paperback, the little beeping from Santana's phone was just as distracting.<p>

The latter was playing Candy Crush on her phone, and currently too busy annihilating the vibrant candy pieces to take note of Quinn. She was sprawled carelessly and lazily over the couch, and Quinn wondered why it bothered her so terribly, yet at the same time, it didn't. It bothered her because it was her place, and she had no control over it at the moment, and it didn't bother her at all, because it was Santana.

She was never one to believe in karma, and neither was she one to dream (though there were rare moments when she just stopped - stopped all her scheming and worrying to sit still and wish upon something) but as she stared at the dark brown strands cascading over the side of Santana's face, she couldn't help but to have that brief moment of introspection where she admitted (albeit reluctantly) that at least some of Santana's current misfortune must have stemmed from her deeds in high school.

Karma, if it were really that true, was a colossal bitch, and in that case, the same could be said for Quinn; it wasn't like she had been a saint back then.

And as it to prove the very point she had established, the doorbell rang.

"Yours," Santana mumbled, distracted as she plucked furiously at the miniature screen in her hand. Damn that candy.

It was amusing that Santana had to mention it, not that it was blatantly obvious already, but it wasn't like she would have divulged her current predicament to many people. Quinn knew how Santana's pride stood in her way at times, and in that odd sense, she was flattered for the tiniest moment, that Santana hadn't kept it from her.

With a muted sigh, she got off the comfortable sofa to attend to the door.

It was Biff.

Despite her initial surprise, she smiled at him warmly. "Hey, um, do you want to come in?"

She pulled open the door to let him in, but he declined politely. "No, no, i'm sort of in a hurry actually, and, oh-"

He paused when he caught sight of the head popping up from the couch. Quinn didn't need to turn around; she could feel Santana's eyes trained on her back, but she still did, following his line of gaze to see Santana staring at Biff, then Quinn, and back at Biff.

"Um, that's my friend...the one I told you about," Quinn reminded him quietly, in case Santana heard. She doubted she'd take it well to find that Quinn had told someone about her unexpected stay. There was an uncomfortable silence - the beeping from her phone had stopped, and Quinn hoped Biff wouldn't blurt out anything Santana didn't need to hear.

Santana's ears perked up, and she couldn't hold back the disdain when she saw Quinn's so called friend. He did look the picture module of someone Quinn would be expected to be with; gelled-down hair that reminded her of very familiar gay monkey, a prim and proper appearance that screamed poster boy of the decade. There was an ugly feeling crawling up her spine, and she fought it back down when said male smiled at her sheepishly.

Luckily, Biff didn't seem to catch on, and merely smiled. "Hey, and yeah, Quinn, sorry to scare you like this, but I think you left this-" he paused, frantically fumbling around in his pocket to reveal a glittering necklace, "-back when you came."

Santana frowned. Back when you came? What the heck did that mean, and why was she getting so infuriated at that?

Quinn seemed to be acting on the contrary; relief flooded her system, and she smiled again at Biff, genuinely and gratefully.

"Thank you, oh god, I was looking for it everywhere last night!"

She thanked Biff for a few more moments, but with Santana's constant glare burning holes at her back, she had to awkwardly send him off.

"Take care, Quinn, and bye!" he waved, to Quinn, then to Santana, who's smiled turned plastic the moment he left.

Quinn inspected the little cross, then the chain, in case it had been damaged, but it was as good as it had been a few days ago, and slightly comforted, she hooked it back around her neck. Santana had returned to her game, but that omnipresent tension in the air was making itself obvious by the moment as Quinn crossed the room, back to her book.

She could tell Santana was agitated, her face was contorted in a fascinating mixture of utter scorn and resentment, and something else that Quinn couldn't quite identify that made her breath clog up in her throat. There was no point in going back to her book.

"I thought professor patches would have more, you know, patches."

Here it came.

The forced flippancy in the statement broke Quinn out of her quiet spectating, but she wasn't provoked. She felt an odd sense of apathy, on the contrary, and she lowered her book. "That wasn't him."

"Oh, you mean there's more?"

Santana practically spat her question, eyes purposefully staring at candy that was just as plastic and fake as her smile.

Its supposed to be taunting, only that it wasn't. Sure, Santana lashed out whenever the time called for it, but where she indulged in violence easily, she struggled with words, this had to mean something. But Quinn didn't know what it meant, or what Santana wanted it to mean.

"You don't get to do that, Santana," Quinn said quietly. "He's just a friend."

"Oh, i'm sure Professor XXX was just a friend too."

She was never one to be calm, but she could honestly say she had no idea what propelled to spit out that response. She didn't feel any better when she saw Quinn's face twitch at the remark.

The irritation was hard to quell, but Quinn tried nonetheless. She wanted to weather Santana's sudden, and completely uncalled for, rage with as much dignity as she could.

"Do you have to be such a bitch?"

Santana looked up to Quinn's face. Her phone lay on the couch, the screen facing up, and Quinn's focus shifted to the screen briefly; the game had long been forfeited. "Well, you have to be one to know one right, Q?" Santana snapped back.

Of course, it did. That's what they did; they poked and taunted at each other because they understood how they worked, and more often that not, Quinn wished she didn't. She watched with disappointment as Santana's features returned to that bitter scowl she knew all too well.

"Don't do that," Quinn growled in irritation, trying to dive back into her book. Tough luck, she had lost her page, along with her interest.

"Do what? I'm just interested in my _best friend's_ love life," she riposted. The term of endearment was forced and snarled, and Santana flashed a cracked, brilliant sneer at Quinn.

Quinn stared at her curiously, and somewhere in the process, Santana thought she heard a little grunt of acknowledgement, and was thrown off by the candor when Quinn smiled sadly at her.

"You're right,-" she allowed, and Santana felt clueless. She was nonplussed because this wasn't what they did - they lashed back at each other, and if they didn't, it meant Quinn was building up to something. Her teeth dug into deeper her lip, and she waited for it.

"- but maybe you should be more interested in getting your life on track, San," the blonde continued, as evenly as she could, "because I don't think I see a scholarship or Brittany around."

"You don't get to tell me what to do, Q," Santana whispered harshly, her game long forgotten as the screen dulled. But despite the viciousness of her tone, she knew just how small she sounded because it was true. It was a fact.

Quinn had seen enough of Santana to know that this was her playing her part very well. This was what Santana did when forced to the corner, and to reality; she lashed out and looked for ways to run, and her current option was to turn it back on Quinn. It took only a moment of pregnant silence before Santana did just that.

"You know what, just go back to that stupid, rated sorority of yours with that horny profess-," she hissed scathingly, but it wasn't as vicious as Quinn had expected.

"Where is she?" Quinn interrupted. She was genuinely curious, and wasn't it her duty to know what had happened to the pair of soul mates who were her supposed best friends? Where was that girl that Santana had given up so much for?

Santana regarded her with an uncomprehending expression, and Quinn had to swallow back a bitter smile. This was the Santana she hadn't seen for so long, that had hid so well behind that reclusive shell of hers, and she just stared back at Quinn like a deer caught in oncoming headlights.

Santana felt her fingers still, and yes, she was frightened. Not because of Quinn, but because she had been so good at ignoring the obvious (heck, she had done it all through high school) and the blonde's words were like the needle trying to poke through that little bubble of hers.

"Why here, why not with Brittany?"

Santana clicked her jaw, shaking her head slightly as if catching herself from doing anything foolhardy. She didn't have the patience, and she wasn't ready for this. She wasn't ready to answer the questions Quinn was going to throw at her, who was standing there, her head tilted in a way that made Santana want to rip it off in the heat of the moment. She shuffled off the couch and the blanket fell around her. (she was fully clothed, thank god)

"I don't have to answer to you, Quinn," she scoffed, pushing down the obvious qualms and wished she sounded as intimidating as she hoped.

"Yes, you do. You came to me, remember? I deserve an explanation."

Santana shrugged her off, looking around for her keys, oblivious to her phone that had slid off the couch, falling to the carpeted floor with a muffled thud that she neither heard nor saw. With an exasperated sigh, Quinn pushed herself off the wall and shifted towards the angry brunette. Maybe it was because Santana was so damn angry that her hands were trembling slightly from the way she felt around for her keys, or maybe it was just because its _her_, but it hit Quinn.

"She left you, didn't she?" she surmised quietly.

Santana stopped, her fingers still clasped around the cold metal as her eyes travelled up to clear hazel ones. She tried to look composed, but eyes dark with fear and stormy with hurt escaped her grasp.

Straightening up to her fullest height, "Its none of your business," she countered calmly, knowing full well that she had given herself away.

"So, she did leave?" Quinn pushed, because the memory of Brittany and Santana lingered in her mind and she needed an affirmation.

"Shut the _fuck _up," she growled, as though the notion revolted her and left a sour taste in her tongue. "Ridiculous,-"

"Yeah, and storming out of here in an idiotic huff isn't ridiculous?" Quinn ground out, regarding Santana with a quietly neutral expression, faintly aware of how close they were. The brunette mere inches shy of her was being defensive and hurt and that was exactly how Quinn had expected her to be; Santana was in character after all. But she needed some answers and she was tired.

Santana's mouth snapped shut. Quinn was right, because god forbid the girl in front of her was ever wrong, but Santana was going to give as good as she got, and who the hell was she to care? She was right in front of Quinn now, but she didn't move despite every instinct in her screeching at her to do so; she didn't have to answer to her.

She didn't want to.

If she was bothered by the proximity, she didn't budge, and the room seemed to fill itself with static as she dropped her shoulders.

* * *

><p>The conversation ended with a slap.<p>

Of course it did, that's how it all always ended.


	8. Chapter 8

Coffee

_It started with a small twitch of her lip and a grimace, and the resonating sound of skin against skin. _

The door slammed with a bitter clap at Santana's departure, and the cackling heat that had resonated through the room seemed to dissipate along with her as well, and the sudden chill caught up with Quinn. She didn't want to think about what had happened - it was too nice of a day and it had been too relaxing of the weekend for her to suddenly be bombarded with whatever happened minutes ago.

Her tired gaze fell on the black lump on the carpet, and with an exasperated sigh, she bent over to pluck Santana's phone, depositing it on her desk.

The stinging sensation that had spread through her cheek had ceased significantly, and her weary thoughts naturally dragged her back to Santana, and in her defence, it was impossible to think of her when she was living with her, but Quinn couldn't argue against the fact that she had been easier on her strained thoughts as of late. Despite her ignorance and snarky tongue and all that had happened in the past and the rest of the complicated list of flaws, Santana had been so much more bearable. Until of course, Quinn had to royally fuck things up, because if there's one thing she was good at, it was that. Sure, Santana started it, but didn't she goad her on?

She fluttered her eyes shut, wondering why the hell she felt guilty all of a sudden. She should have been holding the grudge, she should be charging back in there and basking in her distress.

But she didn't.

She didn't hate her, at all.

Plus,she would never say this out loud, but it almost felt good to have that constant presence around (the apartment could get lonely sometimes, she justified), even if it was forced, and said female could be a huge pain in the ass sometimes.

* * *

><p>If this had been a few months ago, she would have stayed to argue who had slapped harder.<p>

And she would have vehemently insisted that it had been her.

But she did neither, choosing instead to storm out of the apartment, leaving the blonde with her thoughts. It was too dramatic and too rash of a decision, and she was obviously going to end up regretting it, considering how she hadn't even bothered to bring her phone with her. For now, all she could feel was a dense and heavy weight pulsating against her chest and it chased away any other notions she could have had about her phone.

This wasn't high school - she couldn't just blame it all on Snix.

It was late into dusk when she found herself making her way back to the apartment. She had no inclination at all to do so, but the lack of a phone, and anything better to do, told her otherwise. The place was still too big and too chaotic of a city for her to navigate, and the colours of the day were drab to her and the birdsong so much like noise on a child's glockenspiel, grating on her nerves.

The winds were getting harsher and more piercing over the days, and it was almost commendable how clear they steered out of each other's ways If not for the given circumstances, Santana would have found herself awed that she hadn't spoken to Quinn for two whole days, considering how they lived two feet away from each other, only separated by a flimsy door. Had it not been for the occasional smell of food, occupied bathroom and small shuffles from inside her room, she might have questioned if the other had been in the apartment at all. Santana had contemplated letting herself into Quinn's room to rush out a string of rushed apologies, just for her sake, but she reasoned that it would possibly be a step in the wrong direction, and plus, it wasn't just her fault they were in this silent mess.

Their little mishap, as she preferred to call it, had ever so blatantly ensured that she would have to keep out of Quinn's way (for now, at the very least) and she almost referred to it as a blessing in disguise that the new assistant head manager, Nelly, made her stay back to work later and later by the day. Gunther had left, presumably on a vacation with his wife, and to take his place had come an aged lady with hair as shriveled up and pale as her soul, and on the second day itself, she had lead to Santana questioning deeply just what part of the the new found arrangement had seemed like a blessing to her.

While Gunther was probably heating it up under the sheets with his wife in Malibu, she was stuck here with a cantankerous catlady. Sue was almost a holy saint compared to the monstrosity of a woman she had to face, and that day was no different.

"You need to make sure the food gets to 'em in time, if not they'll go batshit crazy on you," the lady said, or droned, in this case, seeing how Santana was this close to falling asleep as she rambled on. "And smile at 'em all the time, maybe even show a bit if you want tips," she muttered airily, before re-adjusting her hair net. "Remember, the customer might not always be right, but you gotta' keep them smiling if you want to stay here."

Santana bit her tongue, swallowing back the words that threatened to jump out of her lips, starting with the fact that Gunther had already gone through her duties the first day in a much more applicable and concise manner, and also with the fact that adjusting that hairnet will do her no good at all; considering how Nelly needed to have enough hair to put on one of those in the first place.

"And smile more, will you? You look like someone took a piss in front of you," she drawled lazily, waving her spatula as she waddled away back into the kitchen. Santana hissed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She had cheered her way to a scholarship (sure, she lost it, but she still _earned_ it) and in addition, had a flawless set of teeth - smiling had been her only way of showing them off, and that old hag dare question it?

Santana gritted her teeth, deciding against sighing loudly in case nettlesome Nelly decided to make a reappearance. Stamping out that tiny flicker of satisfaction that aroused from the alliteration, she slipped through the somewhat stereotypically cramped space of the restaurant and through the kitchen door, pushing past the chefs that shuffled against one another like an unfortunate deck of cards. Slipping past the steel tables, she balanced two plates of food on her arms, backing out again through the singular door. It was completely, utterly, fucking ridiculous (not just because she was working here, but that the couple at table nine were willing to pay so much for a plate of overpriced spaghetti bolognaise) and if anything, her exasperation showed on her face. Half the customers that slithered into the godforsaken place were naive, downtown yuppies who couldn't pronounce the names of most caffeine beverages on the menu, and if not for the fact that the final hour of her shift that she was currently indulging in was the most gratifying coast to freedom, she might have tossed the plate of spaghetti right at the moony-eyed couple in front of her.

With the last order completed and the last table wiped clean, it was with overbearing exasperation that Santana made her way back after the long day.

She rubbed her forehead, cursing as she entered the still apartment. Boring hours filled with painstakingly fake smiles and complaining customers were not her forte, at all, and the harsh winds screaming outside did nothing to ease her irritation. Tossing her bag over on the sofa, she sank into the couch, which felt more as home than ever. It was close to midnight, and as much as she needed a shower (the bathroom was beckoning with wide open welcoming arms) she was too lazy to move from the comfortable position she found herself in. It was chilly too, with the wind screaming like strangled humans, and it wouldn't do her good to shower when it was cold, she figured.

It occurred to her that she had been trying to give valid justifications to everything she did as of late, but it wouldn't do to dwell on her personal approaches to life this late into the night. She quickly abandoned the idea of gaining any sleep; she could calmly sit through the most colourful thunderstorm and listen to the beats of the pouring rain, but what she did not care for was a wind that sounded like a howling banshee. She might be a tough ghetto bitch, but she wasn't made of armour.

She remained huddled up at the corner of the couch for a few more minutes before peeling off her socks and reaching for her phone. Her exhaustion had exiled her to the couch, and she had no intention of moving anytime soon, and instead sought to seek solace with the warmth radiating off her phone as she surfed the web.

Only when her neck felt stiff and her arms were losing any sensation did she shift, she propped herself up on her elbows to steal a quick glance at the dimly-lit clock. She grimaced; it was incredulous, and she was almost convinced the clock was blatantly lying when it showed that it was half one; was she to believe that she had absently scrolled - refreshed, then scrolled all over again - through social media for more than an hour in one sitting?

Apparently, she had, and she expelled an agitated sigh when a small click broke the air. She paused, craning her neck over the top of the couch to find Quinn slowly leaving her room. Quinn's gaze trailed over to the pair of legs dangling over the side of the couch, and she halted momentarily glancing at the person on the couch. She expelled an agitated breath as she headed over towards the bathroom, choosing to ignore Santana completely.

It got on her nerves so often that she had to wake up at random hours to use the toilet, an inconvenient she cultivated when she was pregnant, and unfortunately had been unable to get rid of ever since. The nocturnal routine also comprised of her drinking water, and as expected, the kitchen was smothered in darkness when she entered, and Quinn fumbled around for a little while before finding the light switch, flicking it on promptly to shower the room with light.

Santana peered over her phone to Quinn's back. She thought twice before she spoke, but the words hurried out before she could have thought about it thrice. "Did I wake you?" she mumbled, half-hoping the blonde wouldn't hear her - it was better than being unsure if she was simply deciding not to acknowledge the question. Fuck, who knew why she thought asking was even a wise idea.

Quinn threw a quick glance behind, bewildered as she reaffirmed that yes, it was Santana who had spoken. "Um, no," came the reply, only barely louder than the trickle of fluid as Quinn poured a glass of water, all the while keeping her back to Santana.

"Well, then why-"

"I was thirsty," she offered quickly, pivoting on her heels and making her way past the couch back to her room. The water sloshed around in the glass, and just as she was about to close her hands around the handle to her door, she faltered. "Santana, wait," she said quickly, straightening her back and wondering exactly what on earth she even intended to say.

Santana flickered her eyes to the silhouette against the door frame. She had no clue why Quinn stopped short of her door, and she wasn't going to question it - lest she spontaneously decided to remember her constant desire to get away from her. But that didn't mean she had to swallow down her pride and not show her frustration at Quinn as well, and she sighed, like the latter was interfering with her currently non-existent schedule. "Yes?"

Quinn hesitated, turning around with the glass still in hand. "About that day...when we um, talked-"

_Talked_.

Quinn would have slapped herself if she could - talked?! Was that the most appropriate word she had dug out of the thesaurus embedded in her brain for the situation? Great; representing her glowing GPA in style, Quinn edition.

It had been one hell of a fruitful talk though; the result being lots of rotten fruits in that case.

"Which? When you decided to go all hoodlum Barbie on me?" Santana clarified in a stoic tone, carefully rising from the couch.

"You started it!" Quinn riposted indignantly, striding away from the door to her room, her demeanor changing drastically from moments ago.

Santana pursed her lips. Silence was tantamount to culpability, and she continued to watch sharply as Quinn brought the glass to her lips, the moisture glossing her lips. They parted, almost as if to say something, but Santana beat her to it. "Does it matter?"

"Well, no, but it was stupid," Quinn confessed, almost shyly, averting her attention to the clear drop of water sliding down the side of the glass. "Stupid of us, I mean," she corrected thoughtfully.

"It sure was," Santana mumbled bitterly, and there was an uncomfortable silence lurking blatantly around them.

"Well, um, yeah" Quinn hesitated, and licked her teeth. There were words threatening to tumble out of her mouth, but without another word, she headed back towards her room. Santana's gaze trailed over to Quinn, in her simple t-shirt and baggy pyjama bottoms, and she found herself holding her breath as the door started to close. If this were a movie, this would most certainly be the moment where the dramatic orchestral music crept in, coupled with the slow-motioned visual effects.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out hastily. She didn't have time to mull over or regret it , as Quinn's head quickly popped out from the gap between the door and the frame. Suspicion and shock almost made her choke on her drink, but Quinn caught herself, and Santana stared as Quinn's jaw twitched, forming a small smirk.

"What did you say?"

Santana glared at her, and she was willing to bet that Quinn had heard her perfectly fine the first time around. Never mind. "I said, i'm sorry."

"Did I just hear the S-word? From Santana?" Quinn asked, in a loud stage-whisper, toying with the handle briefly before taking a few steps back over the threshold.

"Oh, shut it," Santana bristled, "And its not like its just my fault, in case you forgot."

"I know," Quinn replied, the ghost of her smile still tugging at her lips as she lingered near the threshold. "Sorry I guess, I shouldn't have been, you know, so-"

"Nosy? Bitchy?" Santana prompted from the couch, scowling, but decided just then to not tell Quinn that she was long over their little feud. "Go on, Quinn, i'm a sucker for a little self-deprecating humour."

"Do you always have to be so annoying?" Quinn huffed, resting her palms against the back of the sofa opposite the couch.

"I thrive on sarcasm," she replied defiantly, eyes darting back to her phone screen. Quinn wondered if this was actually the time for conversation gambit, but it was better than the past few agonizing hours of dodging and hiding. Plus, by the flimsy flickering of the light radiating off her phone, Santana didn't look close to jumping down Quinn's throat any moment (a huge improvement); she looked more peaceful, surreal even - but maybe it was just the darkness toying with her vision and perceptions that made her linger awkwardly behind the sofa, and she flinched slightly when Santana sighed loudly and dramatically.

"Are you going to sit or what?" she asked suddenly, punctuating the awkward silence, and Quinn realised that she must have been silent for far too long.

She bit the inside of her cheek, her cautious stare shifting to Santana. "No, i'll go back," she muttered, shifting her weight away from the sofa. Just before she swung her door shut, she peered over the edge, for the second time that night. Santana cocked a brow, looking at Quinn expectantly.

"Sleep soon," she mumbled awkwardly, closing the door shut with a soft thud. There was a quiet shuffle of footsteps from inside her room, and soon everything was still and silent again. Santana scowled like the suggestion was absolutely ridiculous, but the kind gesture was more than welcomed. Maybe it was too late, and maybe Quinn had already gone off to sleep, but after almost a whole minute, Santana yelled, "You too!"

* * *

><p>The following morning found Quinn up too early; earlier than Santana, at the very least. She plodded over to the kitchen, bleary-eyed. It was part of the unspoken routine to consume caffeine in the morning, because god forbid she ever try to get through a day without it. Additionally, in a city that never seemed to sleep, it was a habit that became unintentionally employed to satisfy the ongoing hustle and bustle.<p>

The pot was full and steaming, the smell wafting around serendipitously, and Quinn's eyes drifted over to the shifting lump under the blankets. She stood patiently by the counter-top, scrolling through her phone and flicking occasional glances over to the couch when movement was detected.

It wasn't long before she heard the brunette's muffled objections to venturing out to greet the world. The sheets moved around vehemently, with the occasional silhouette of a limb stretching out, accompanied by the range of sounds of cracking joints.

"Morning," she spoke, as a grumpy Santana's crowning glory of unkempt hair peeked out from underneath the sheets. There was radio silence for a few moments, before Quinn's instigation elicited a groan. At least, that was what she thought it was; it was an indiscernible noise that sounded very much like a foghorn.

"Mmm," Santana grunted, presumably in response.

Quinn chuckled in spite of herself.

"You're so chipper in the morning," she commented, more to herself than to Santana, pouring herself a mug of coffee and turning to face her companion.

The latter heard her though, and Quinn looked up just in time to see that she had earned a scowl. A scowl that hovered between borderline jocularity and indifference - rather than the ones filled with complete disgust and anger that she had seen all too often.

"Do you want, um, coffee? I have some..." she asked awkwardly, having decided that the silence between them was bringing the fringes of discomfort.

That caught Santana off-guard. Of all the things she could have said after whatever that had happened, she didn't think those words would pass Quinn's lips in her company anytime soon - though it was certainly an intriguing development to the shitty situation. She didn't respond, but Quinn clearly decided she was making one for her anyway, and the smell of ground coffee mingled deliciously with Quinn's natural scent. (Whatever shampoo she was using, she was using it well, Santana thought.) She toyed with her phone while the blonde finished making the beverages, brought them over and set them on the coffee table. Santana looked at her pointedly when she retreated to the counter, the hazel orbs shifting cautiously from Santana to the steaming mug meant for her.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her brows furrowing suspiciously and her flat voice subduing Quinn.

Quinn feigned innocence, "Me? I'm being a nice person, in case you didn't get the drift."

Santana raised her eyebrow in inquiry, earning a snort from Quinn. She regarded the brunette coolly, but the words that she spoke were weary. "I got the impression that you weren't enjoying the silence, so I attempted to relieve you."

"Yeah, well, now that we're talking, I prefer the silence."

Quinn's sharp features eased back into the bitter and all too familiar scowl temporarily, before she took a deep breath.

"Can we stop this? It's awful enough that we're on bad terms _again, _but it's kind of impossible to go through with it if we have to keep staring at each other's faces all the time and yes, I suppose I shouldn't have said all those things that day," she muttered, her face showing slightly more emotion than her phlegmatic tone.

The agitated drumming against the smooth surface filled the minutes as Quinn did all she could to stop staring at Santana. Her own attempts at being civilised were unnerving.

Santana looked up and frowned. "You suppose?"

Quinn's expression scrunched up in confusion, before she hissed in an annoyed manner. Santana's face broke into a smile at the gesture, and she slowly pushed herself up into a comfortable sitting position; ditching her heap of blankets (which tumbled down carelessly) for her growling stomach. The couch groaned quietly with the change in weight, and Quinn blinked away (just in case) but there was fortunately no need for it this time. "It was actually pretty cold last night, so my shirt decided to stick with me," Santana smirked nonchalantly from the couch, observing Quinn as she planted herself tentatively on the kitchen counter, legs dangling inches away from the tiled floor.

"So, how was work?"

"Shitty as fuck, and- wait, how do you know?" Santana paused abruptly, staring at Quinn suspiciously.

"That nametag..." Quinn paused to lap at her now tepid drink, "And that constant smell of burnt coffee might have been clues," she shrugged amiably, setting the mug down and clutching onto the ceramic edge of the counter.

"Well, Sherlock, good job," Santana smirked, before sighing loudly. "I didn't think it was physically possible, but the job both sucks and blows."

"That bad?"

"You could say that," she said with candor, observing her with more attention than possibly appropriate. Quinn lifted her own mug up from the table and brought it to those rosy lips of hers, forming her mouth into a small circle to blow the steam away. It shouldn't have held Santana's attention, but it did.

"It'll get cold," Quinn voiced out, regarding Santana quietly as she herself took a small sip. Santana blinked at her, to which Quinn piped up again. "Your drink, it'll get cold."

She inhaled sharply, but leaned forward to accept the mug in any case. Blowing the faint steam away, she took a long drag of the liquid; the first swallow of the beverage leaving her unwinding like a taut ball of yarn. It wasn't the best coffee she had, but it was certainly up there on the list. She took another sip, swallowing down the liquid as well as the urge to smack her lips to exalt the quality of it - she wasn't going to give the blonde the pleasure of seeing her enjoy it.

There were situations that would arise where some topics were just beyond boundaries, but the question had been lingering within her for days, and curse her inquisitive nature."So, how's your _friend_ doing?" she asked evenly, curling around the warm mug as if it were life support. Anything remotely warm was more than welcome given the dropping temperatures.

She wasn't one to feed on the past, and she was clearly in no position to insert herself into Quinn's life, but she could start somewhere, couldn't she? Plus, she was genuinely curious, and desperate for affirmation that the blonde was not romantically inclined to that gelled up doll. She just needed the validation, she'd ponder as to why, sometime later.

Quinn paused, wondering what on earth Santana was talking about. She was about to make a fool of herself, this close to clarifying as to which friend the brunette was referring to when it came to her. God, she was so stupid sometimes.

Quinn narrowed her eyes. "Biff McIntosh? Seriously, Santana, it would serve you well to never bring that up, ever," she said squarely, having long decided that it was best that the incident was best tucked away at the back of beyond.

"I'm just asking," Santana reasoned carefully with a noncommittal shrug. "I'm making conversation here, Q."

Quinn scowled as if the suggestion was incredulous (it was), but considered her words. Nothing with Santana was just black and white, she'd come to learn that a long time ago, and she was guessing Santana meant something more specific and cynical.

"He's doing fine," she scoffed. "Like you mentioned, he's just a friend."

A fascinating mixture of relief stole Santana's face briefly before dissipating just as quickly as it had appeared. "Cool," Santana stated simply, before snapping her eyes back to Quinn. "Wait, his last name, its McIntosh?" she asked loudly, slowly.

Quinn nodded hesitantly from the counter, her confusion further heightened when an expression of rancor and disgust formed on her face. "He's named after apples? Seriously? The fuck were his parents thinking?"

Quinn couldn't help but giggle at the thought; she had been dying to know herself, but it wasn't the sort of thing she could just ask. Being inquisitive about ancestral fruit fetishes wasn't the best conversation starter in her books.

"Hey, don't judge," she snapped sternly, though the smile on her face gave her away. "Maybe they were avid apple lovers."

"Right. Apple maniacs," she muttered, taking a gulp of her coffee. She brought the mug back down, only to lock eyes with an expectant Quinn.

"What now?" Santana asked, bewildered. Was she supposed to give something in exchange for the coffee?

Her apparently cluelessness earned her a patented Quinn Fabray eye roll, and the ghost of a former cheerleading captain floated to the surface in that swift ocular arc of her eyes.

"The coffee" Quinn prompted, before pressing on. "How is it?"

"Its okayish," she scoffed with her best smug facade, without missing a beat. Average was as good as Quinn was going to get when it came to compliments. She had apologised more times in the past night than she had in the week, and if she was supposed to be offering the blonde words of gratitude now, that was just pushing the line.

It didn't lead to Quinn losing her momentum though, and she gave Santana a clean sweep through her hazel eyes. "Uh huh, and I suppose that's why you almost finished it even though its scalding?" A tight smile accompanied the accusation, and she merely glanced over at Santana with a darting swipe of her tongue to lick her coffee lips.

At her mocking accusation, Santana's eyes flickered to the mug in her hands, only to find a curiously small amount left. Instantaneously, she regretted the long slurps she had taken just moments ago.

"And just so you know, okayish isn't exactly a word," the blonde continued, regarding Santana with mirth from the countertop.

Setting the mug gingerly back on the coffee table, Santana narrowed her eyes in search of a rebuttal. The hunt for a satisfactory reasoning proved to be futile and all she could scrape up was a pathetic reply. "You think you're some kind of hotshit for making a cup of coffee? In case you haven't noticed, its cold as heck out here and i'm willing to take in heat even if its in the form of the abysmal mud water you call coffee. Plus, I just woke up." She waved her arms for good measure, to indicate just how cold it was.

Not that she needed to; just the past night, Quinn had to resort to constructing a shield of pillows around her to retain some of the fast depleting warmth.

Quinn laughed haughtily, before spitting out a breathy, highly unconvincing, "Sure."

The petulant, thirteen-year-old in Santana decided to make a spontaneous appearance, and the brunette riposted adamantly. "Your head's getting bigger by the day, you know." She was mildly agitated, but there was a smidgen of respect that slithered into her consciousness for Quinn - she had one upped her in any case.

"Great comeback," Quinn mocked, beaming when her successful bantering resulted in a glare from a pair of charcoal eyes. "So, do you want another cup, or are you warmed up enough by the one you gulped down like no tomorrow?"

"You're sucking the joy out of my morning glow, do you know that?" Santana shot back brusquely, looking at Quinn squarely in the eye.

"Oh, i'm sorry," Quinn exclaimed, all dramatics and teasing, staring her down till the latter rolled her eyes with a small sigh. "How exactly am I doing that?"

If it had been some other time - any other time in fact - just not when she just woke out of her slumber, Santana would have dealt a long string of rebuttals in Quinn's way, but she was too comfortable in that little post-awakening trance to think of any remotely witty ways to antagonize the smirking blonde.

"Don't apply logic to Lopez," she muttered, taking in a final swig of Quinn's rather perfectly concocted beverage.


End file.
